


fizzing sours

by wickersnap



Series: Wizarding Photographs [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Remixed), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Blood and Injury, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Crushes, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Harry & co are now Tired of Adults, Harry Potter Has a Saving People Thing, Harry Potter series rewrite, Harry has good and supportive friends, I'm hijacking Cho's scenes for my own purposes, Many friendships - Freeform, Most people live, Multi, Mutual Pining, School Dances, Secrets Shared, So do things their way, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tags will be updated, Triwizard Tournament, Turns out the dementors vibe checked Dudley and he failed, Umbridge is a sack of wet rats, harry potter befriends the rest of the Weasleys sooner and to a deeper degree, it's a boarding school so idk what to expect, minor though, rating change to be safe!, they also adopt him, underage is between two teenagers and is very consensual, warning for really really dismally bad innuendo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 153,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: He opens his eyes again, still blinking against the light. Several faces swim into view, the closest Ron and Hermione’s where they’re leant over him, looking worried.“What happened?” Harry asks. “What was that—that thing?”“Are you okay?” Ron asks instead of answering.If there's one constant to Harry's life other than Voldemort breathing down his neck, he'd say it's Hermione and the Weasleys. Sometimes he doesn't know where he'd be without them.(He does. It's deader and with a lot less love.)Family, adventure, family adventures, and a highly inconvenient crush on your best friend's brother.Or, a story where the other Weasleys have a liiittle bit more of an active role in Harry's life.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley, Cho Chang/Cedric Diggory, Harry Potter & Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/George Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Series: Wizarding Photographs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938757
Comments: 231
Kudos: 432





	1. A First Year's Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: As with my previous HP post, I didn't think I was going to post this at all, to be truly honest. I spent the first two-three months in lockdown scribbling out the first five years (the most dedicated and inspired months of my life), and was over 120k words in before JK decided permanently that she couldn't keep her mouth shut. I thought I might as well go ahead and post this, as my most intensive labour of love, regardless.  
> I had planned to finish the entire series, having mapped everything out, but for JKR and motivation related reasons I don't really think I will end up doing the rest. I hate that she's ruined something that has brought an awful lot of people so much joy, but I also despise how she decided it a good idea to use her very considerable platform to attack me and my friends and our loving, peaceful, worldwide community so blatantly. I hope all of you are well and looking after yourselves despite her atrocities and the state of the world right now <3
> 
> And please, please enjoy :)

#####  **\- 11 -**

“How did you get here?” Harry asks in bewilderment, looking around for another boat. The one Uncle Vernon had hired is still here, sloshing a lot of water in the bottom thanks to the storm. Aside from that, there’s nothing. 

“I flew, o’ course,” says Hagrid proudly.

“You  _ flew?” _ Harry gasps.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “but we’ll go back in this. ’M not suppose’ ter use magic now a’ve got yeh.”

He helps Harry into the boat, splashing about in the large puddle as if it was no concern whatsoever. Harry climbs along the bench without landing in the water and settles there, knees curled into his chest. Hagrid hums, looking around them.

“It seems a shame ter row, now,” he says. “If a was ter, er,  _ speed things along a bit, _ yer wouldn’t mind not mentionin’ it when yeh get ter Hogwarts, would yeh?”

“Of course not!” Harry replies immediately, anxious and excited to see more magic. Blimey, real  _ magic _ —who’d’ve thunk it?

######  _ \- x - _

“Hey!” Harry shrieks between giggles, much too loud even amidst the rabble of the Gryffindor common room. “George! Stop! Let me go!”

“How’d you know it was me, Harry dearest?” George asks on a grin, leering over the back of the sofa with his wand held out. Mercifully, he lifts the tickling charm so Harry can answer.

“Because Fred’s over there,” he pants, grinning back and shoving him away.

George dodges his flailing arms and tries gleefully to get him back under the spell. “I suppose it would be my vastly superior looks that give it away?”

“Oi!” Ron says. “Leave us alone, will you?”

“Now, now, Ron,” Fred interjects. “Can’t be getting too big for your first-year boots just yet!”

“Shove off!” he tells them, and marches Harry towards the dormitory. Harry throws a glance over his shoulder in case he’s upset the twins, only to be met with two evil smirks and a wink.

“Don’t let him get to you Harry!” George shouts.

“Hah!” Fred says. “What’s life without a bit of fun.”

“Will you be quiet?” Percy demands from a table by the portrait hole.

“It’s not fun when you’re always on the receiving end,” Ron grumbles, and Harry suddenly understands that he’s trying to protect him. 

He doesn’t think he needs protection from Ron’s brothers. 

_ Snape, _ on the other hand… 

######  _ \- x - _

Harry and Ron fight a troll for Hermione in the girl’s bathroom on Halloween. Somehow, this chance event is their catalyst to leading them on a wild chase down a trapdoor guarded by possibly the fiercest creature they’ve yet seen—even if it won’t keep that top spot for long. 

Ron sacrifices himself to the sword of the White Queen on Professor McGonagall’s larger-than-life chess table. Hermione screams, and Harry feels like doing the same.

Hermione gets him through Snape’s potion room. He sends her back through the flames to Ron and carries on.

Voldemort tries to kill him for the stone, so Harry crumbles Quirrel to dust. He hadn’t meant to. He wakes up in the hospital wing with Dumbledore hovering over him and his first thought is  _ Ron and Hermione. _

They’re fine, it turns out, and happier than ever to see him. Hermione even forgives him for making her break so many school rules. He reckons he couldn’t ever ask for more than this.

######  _ \- x - _

Around Christmas, Bill and Charlie Weasley receive near-identical owls from their youngest brother that are full of excited babbling. He tells them about his first few months at Hogwarts—the troll definitely takes them by surprise—and how everything is just as they told him it would be and better. He tells them about fellow first-year Harry Potter and how he’s way too thin and way too clueless and wants to be his friend, and they smile. He tells them about ‘bossy’ Hermione Granger and how she could be a tiny, carbon copy of Percy right down to the unruly curls on her head. Bill sends on the news to their parents, sure they’ve received similar (edited) stories already. Charlie writes back to Ron immediately, telling him how proud he is and that he needs to bring his friends home to meet next time he’s in the country.

Percy has few opinions on Ron’s new friend, other than the two of them are getting into much more trouble together than would be advisable. He much prefers little Granger, who sings the benefits of hard work and academics to them all day long. Oliver tells him he needs to lighten up and let his brother enjoy being a child while he still has the chance. He’s right, of course, but he’s probably also quite biased, seeing as Harry is his new star seeker and the more Percy complains the less time he has to draw up quidditch plays. Percy just sighs and copies out Oliver’s ridiculous scrawl so his team might actually have a hope in Hades of reading it.

George is quite taken by eleven-year-old Harry Potter from the moment Ron introduces him as his new best friend. Fred doesn’t seem to be quite so interested until their mother practically adopts the boy, which is when they decide that he’s as much a Weasley as the rest of them. He seems the troublemaker type, despite his cruel past, and fits in seamlessly. George wouldn’t be surprised if his mother was already devising a plan to get him married into the family and make it permanent.

Ginny is ten and very shy when she first meets Harry. Her mother thinks she has a crush, as mothers do. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t, but she’s ten and has barely seen more than the Burrow and its fields, the village nearby, and King’s Cross Station. She thinks Harry is very polite and a little bit scruffy, but she soon realises it’s not by choice. Ginny sees all the other boys and girls and everyone else going to school and wishes she could be one of them. She sees Hermione Granger and Katie Bell and Hannah Abbott before she knows their names and each time thinks,  _ wow, she’s pretty. _ She waves to Fred and George and Percy and Ron and wishes she could go with them.


	2. Second Year

#####  **\- 12 -**

It’s dark outside and there are bars on his window, but Harry can see the flying car in front of him as clearly as anything. The neighbour’s garden lights glint off the paintwork and throw all three of the car’s occupants into a bright white portraits, like flashes from a camera. Ron—and what a surprise it is to see him!—leans out of a window and hooks a tow cable onto the bars. The car turns away from the window and accelerates, and with an almighty shriek of tearing metal, half the wall explodes outwards. 

Harry gasps, stumbling away from the drop into his aunt and uncle’s garden.

“Ron! What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, of course!” Ron grins. His voice sounds a bit like it’s being put through the shredder, but Harry remembers his year five teacher assuring them that this was a normal thing and disregards it. Also behind the wheel are Fred and George, who hurry him into shoving the last of his clothes in his trunk and getting them into the car. Harry can hear his aunt and uncle crashing up to the door, and is endlessly grateful when someone nudges George and he leaps through the shattered glass to help him haul everything into the boot. Harry gazes at him, still dazed, and George grins. He has a nice smile, Harry thinks. 

George climbs back up and Ron swings out the door for Harry, grabbing on tight and not letting go—even when Uncle Vernon tries to come along from the ride.

They drop him into a bush and have a right good laugh about it.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Ron asks him when the thought occurs.

“Definitely,” he replies, still marvelling at the view, the magic, and the daring of his friends.

“Are you sure?” Fred presses from the driver’s seat. “There were  _ bars _ on your window.”

“Uncle Vernon put them up because a house elf framed me for embarrassing them in front of important business partners,” he explains. There’s no need to lie, he thinks, because they saved him. He didn’t do anything wrong at all, and it feels so good to be able to tell someone. So relieving.

“A house elf?!” Ron repeats, looking appalled. “Only wizards have those!”

“What  _ is _ a house elf?” Harry asks, and his best friend launches off into an unnecessarily long, winding, but ultimately appreciated explanation. Harry watches his face to gauge his reactions and react appropriately, and peers closely at each of his brothers any time one of them interejects, just in case they’re messing with him.

And then they arrive at the Burrow, and all thoughts of house elves fly instantly from his mind.

The building is a spire in the open fields surrounding them, all higgledy-piggledy and leaning and looking like it’s half farmhouse, half watchtower. Harry gazes up at it in awe when they tumble out of the car, and when he trips over a small pumpkin in the front garden starts apologising profusely.

They sneak in through the back door, and Harry is abruptly aware that he has no right to be here. Ron tugs him inside and he lets curiosity quickly win out as he spies the dishes scrubbing themselves in the sink, the moving photographs tiling the walls, and the clock on the wall with nine spoons for hands, each with its own Weasley. The three of his friends wander over to the kitchen table and take some of the fresh scones lying there in wait, tucking in without a second thought. Harry watches them, horrified, knowing that he shouldn’t, couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to do anything of the sort.

And then Molly Weasley welcomes him into her house, and he thinks he understands.

“It’s brilliant,” he tells them. They beam.

######  _ \- x - _

At twelve years old, Harry stands up to Lucius Malfoy with a flare of hatred that he hasn’t felt in weeks. He steps in front of Ginny, in front of Ron and Hermione, and tucks them behind him.

Likewise, both of the twins come to stand either side of him. They fold their arms and glare, silently menacing, and it brings a smirk to Harry’s lips.

_ Just try us. _

######  _ \- x - _

Oliver Wood turns to him with eyes full of passion and determination. “It’ll be down to you, Harry,” he says, “to show them that a seeker needs something more than a rich father. Get to that snitch before Malfoy or die trying, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”

Harry grimaces and thinks it would be of rather poor taste to point out that, according to everyone who knew his parents, Harry also had a rather rich father.

“So no pressure, Harry,” Fred says, winking. 

“No dying, though,” Alicia Spinnet mutters.

A great wall of cheering greets them as they emerge onto the pitch astride their brooms, flying expertly up into formation behind Wood. They take their loop around the stands, house colours fluttering proudly in the wind. The Slytherins boo and hiss from their end, and Harry takes great satisfaction in unbalancing the closest of them when they fly a little closer to the stands than strictly necessary. The Slytherin team follows to a meaner applause but at impressive speed on their high-end brooms, frowned at by the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and jeered at by the Gryffindors.

“Captains!” Madam Hooch bellows, and both teams sink gracefully to the pitch grass. Marcus Flint steps forward to meet Oliver and they grip each other’s forearms as if trying to break them.

“On my whistle,” says Madam Hooch. “Three—two—one—!”

All fourteen players hoist themselves back into the air, bolstered by a wild roar from the stands. Harry rises higher than any of them, already scanning the stadium for the snitch. The quaffle is in Angelina’s possession below him, though the darkness of such a leaden sky makes his team’s numbers difficult to pick out.

“All right there, Scarhead?” Malfoy calls, whizzing below him pretentiously.

Harry doesn’t waste time replying. At the very same moment, a large black blur comes pelting towards him and he dips, narrowly avoiding it as it ruffles his hair in its wake.

“Close one, that!” George says, grinning as he streaks by with his club at the ready. He pulls up and swings, hard, sending the bludger hurtling towards Adrian Pucey down below. The bludger travels several dozen feet before it rounds on them, making straight back for Harry.

Harry dives and swerves around behind George, opening him up to another shot. George punts the bludger again, with incredible force for someone on a school team, and it goes haring off towards Malfoy before veering back around again.

Harry darts off across the pitch, leaning low over his broom as he avoids his teammates and dodges between Slytherins. Fred is waiting at the other end of the pitch, and Harry dives barely a few inches beneath him so he can take his shot. Fred pummels the bludger and whoops, watching it careen out of the stands.

“That’s done it!” he yells, but the grin slips quickly from his face when he realises that he has not, in fact, done it.

Harry takes off again as the clouds split open above them. Heavy droplets of rain patter lazily down, growing in size and increasingly heavy as he soars from one end of the pitch to the other.

“Slytherin lead!” cries Lee Jordan. “Sixty points to Gryffindor’s zero!”

The Nimbus Two-Thousands seem to be doing their job. Meanwhile, this bloody bludger is still on his tail, distracting the twins and keeping Harry from both snitch and Malfoy. Fred and George are now keeping pace either side of him, just about, battering the bludger every time it gets close. They soar around the stadium in a tiny arrow, dodging and ducking and managing to unseat Bletchley on their way past. Unfortunately, the quaffle is nowhere near for Gryffindor to score on him.

“Someone’s—tampered—with—this— _ bludger!” _ Fred grunts, swinging precisely and with deadly force. 

“No shit!” George replies. “We need a time out!”

He waves to Oliver with some abandon, trying to keep Harry’s nose in its current state of unbroken simultaneously. Miraculously, Oliver gets the message, and moments later Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieks through the clamour.

Harry, Fred and George dive for the ground, covering themselves as the bludger tails them closely. 

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Wood demands as they manage to slide out of harm’s way just in time. “We’re being flattened! Weasleys, where were you when that bludger stopped Angelina from scoring?”

“Twenty feet above her, stopping that other bludger murdering Harry!” George snaps. “Someone’s fixed it, Oliver—it won’t leave Harry alone and it hasn’t gone for anyone else all game! The Slytherins must have done something to it!”

“But they’ve been locked in Madam Hooch’s office since our last practise!” Oliver says, and for a wild moment of distraction Harry thinks he’s talking about the Slytherins. “There wasn’t anything wrong with them then…” 

Madam Hooch is striding towards them, arm up against the persisting rain.

“Listen,” Harry says, eyeing the jeering Slytherin team. “With you two flying around me we’ll never score and I’ll never get the snitch until it hits me in the face. Go back to the team and let me deal with the rogue one.”

“Are you thick?” Fred demands. “It’ll take your bleeding head off!”

Oliver is frowning and glancing between his team, obviously pained.

“Oliver!” Katie Bell protests. “You can’t possibly—”

“Oliver, this is mad,” Alicia snaps. “You can’t possibly let Harry deal with that thing on his own! We should have an enquiry—”

“If we stop now we’ll have to forfeit the match!” Harry says. “We’re not losing to  _ Slytherin _ just because of one rogue bludger!”

“Harry, this is a bit more than just losing,” Angelina says, frowning.

“Come on, Oliver, I can do it!”

“This is your fault,” George says, rounding on Oliver. “‘Get the snitch or die trying,’ he says—what a stupid thing to tell him!”

“I can do it! I promise!” Harry insists.

“Ready to resume play?” Madam Hooch asks, finally catching up to them.

“All right,” Oliver says, nodding to the determined set of Harry’s face. “Fred, George, let Harry deal with the bludger. We need you all back on side.”

The rain is pelting down now, stinging Harry’s arms around his wrist braces. On Hooch’s whistle he kicks off hard, climbing and climbing to the haunting whistle of the following bludger. He swoops, spirals, ducks and weaves, knowing he must look completely mad to the watching crowd. At the Gryffindor goalposts Pucey is doing his best to get past Oliver, but the whooshing past Harry’s ear tells him the bludger’s had another narrow miss so he wheels around in the opposite direction.

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” sneers Malfoy, looking like he’s enjoying himself far too much. Harry glares at him, spinning on the spot and hoping the bludger might get him as collateral on its way round. Something bright glitters by Malfoy’s right ear and Harry sees it—the snitch! Malfoy’s too busy gloating to even notice, and his face lights up with a very satisfying panic the moment Harry sprints towards him. 

He catches on annoyingly quickly, and they end up neck and neck after the fluttery little thing. It darts towards the stands and Harry has to duck the bludger once again, letting it bluster over his head and crash through one of the stadium supports. He hopes it wasn’t structural.

Harry and Malfoy swirl around the underbelly ringing the inside of the stadium, ducking and weaving around the multitude of wooden beams and platforms. The snitch is inches in front of their fingers, both reach out desperately. Malfoy grunts and leans lower on his broom, jerking himself away from Harry as the bludger makes its return through the stadium walls and towards them. With a whimper and a shout, Malfoy disappears from beside Harry, and the far away echo of the crowd’s reaction tells him he’s probably managed to crash and fling himself from his broom.

Shame. 

The snitch soars out of the vertical slalom course and back out onto the pitch, zooming low over the grass. Harry flattens himself to his broom and stretches out an arm, realising too late that he’s lost track of the bludger.

_ SLAM, _ and it shatters his forearm.

Harry screams, almost sliding off his broom as he pulls his arm into his chest. When he opens his eyes the snitch is still, mercifully, out in front of him, and all he needs to do is fling out his good arm and snatch it out of the air.

So he does.

And then he goes crashing into the sand below Oliver’s goal hoops.

######  _ \- x - _

“Harry!” Katie cries, rushing past the twins in the doorway of the infirmary. Alicia and Angelina follow, running up to Harry’s bed and breathing a sigh of relief when he smiles weakly in return.

“Blimey, I wish we’d set that bludger on Lockhart now,” Fred says, peering down at Harry’s boneless arm with disgust.

“It was hard enough work keeping it in the box— _ away _ from Harry,” George says.

He, Oliver and Fred set down several boxes of sweets and one very thoughtful bunch of flowers at Harry’s bedside. They crack open a couple of bottles of butterbeer and take a swig before passing them round. 

“You did bloody brilliantly, Harry,” Oliver says. “Amazing catch.”

“With a broken arm, too!” Alicia marvels, looking a bit queasy.

“It looked awful,” Hermione says, similarly pale.

“I think we heard it break thirty feet up,” Fred mutters.

“Thanks,” Harry says. “I’m just glad we won.”

“We are, too,” George smiles, and holds out his bottle to clink.

“And  _ what _ do you think you’re all doing here?” Madam Pomfrey demands, rounding the corner.

“Er,” Fred says, “comforting the ill?” 

“Mr Potter needs his sleep! Regrowing bones is no simple trick, Mr Weasley! All of you, out!”

“Oh well,” he sighs. “Guess we’ll see you later, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “See you.”

“We’ll be back,” Angelina promises, dragging the others out of their seats.

“I hope you feel better soon, Harry,” Ron tells him.

Harry sighs, left alone in his bed with the prickling in his arm and a number of thoughts he doesn’t want.

######  _ \- x - _

And now Hermione isn’t around anymore.

“Good morning my good gentlemen,” Fred greets solemnly that morning. He sits on the bench at Harry’s left.

“How are you both holding up this mediocre day?” George asks, sitting on his right. Ron looks up from prodding his cereal on the opposite side of the table to glare at them.

“All right, I suppose,” Harry mumbles. Hermione was only petrified last night, so the rumours haven’t quite spread to everyone, yet. They’re still whispering about him everywhere he goes, accusations of  _ Heir of Slytherin _ hissing through the hallways as loudly as the thing in the goddamn walls. It’s as insulting as it is infuriating, and they’re no closer to sorting out this mess than they were six months ago.

“She’s going to be okay, you know,” Fred says, making his selection from the jams in front of them and liberally slathering his toast with it. “They’ll figure it out soon enough, and the mandrakes will be ready in a few weeks.”

“I hope you’re right,” Harry replies, unenthused.

“Hey.” George nudges him gently with his elbow. “When have we ever been wrong before?”

######  _ \- x - _

Just days later, all of that hope evaporates on the spot. Harry sits with Ron and his brothers in the corner of the common room in complete, disbelieving silence. Every time someone takes a breath he thinks they might burst into tears. He thinks he wouldn’t blame them if they did.

Ron curls his knees into his chest and just stares, utterly unseeing, into the middle distance. He doesn’t blink when Harry shuffles up to lean into his side. Harry thinks he’s stopped breathing when he puts an arm around his back and he doesn’t move at all. Fred is staring listlessly at the ceiling and George refuses to even open his eyes, but Harry knows he’s still awake. When Percy returns from the owlery his eyes are an angry red and his nose is running. He walks straight past them and up the stairs to his dorm. Harry hears him meet Oliver outside their door, hears the whispering sibilance of their conversation, the strain in Percy’s voice and the sobs he’s holding onto by a thread.

The door, six floors up, thuds shut. Fred blinks.

Slowly, like a stretched spring remembering its shape, he pulls his sprawled limbs back to himself. Each of them crack and pop at the joints and he stretches in a painful-looking manner. He stands, and George follows on unsteady feet, finally returning blearily to the world of the seeing.

Harry reaches out before he thinks otherwise. He knows what kind of torture George has undoubtedly been subjecting himself to—knows intimately the kind of damage he’ll have done to himself. So he reaches out to the boy with the nice smile and takes his hand.

George stops dead, gaze locking onto his unmoving fingers. For a long moment Harry frets that it was the wrong thing to do, completely wrong, he should never have interfered, he shouldn’t even be here, but then George’s fingers twitch and curl and squeeze Harry’s right back.

Harry looks up and finds him looking back. The weakest of smiles fights for presence on his lips, and Harry does his best to return it.

######  _ \- x - _

The door opens, and several people exclaim all at once.

“GINNY!”

Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the obliviated Lockhart have walked into an office beset by a wash of Fawkes-inspired colour. So many people rush forward together that Harry takes two quick steps back and crashes into the edge of the open door. His tired limbs protest in screams and his head spins, but he can’t help but smile at the pile of Weasleys in front of him. 

Ron basks in the clutches of his mother and father, both of whom have swooped in to crush their youngest to their chests. Their older brothers, unsurprisingly, have worked their ways between the tangle of arms to add their own, the tears of one becoming the tears of any.

“What are you doing all the way over there, Harry?” Mrs Weasley asks. Harry blinks and his eyebrows start pulling together, but doesn’t have the time to ask what she means before one of the many freckled hands snaps out and grabs him by the robes, hauling him into the pile.

“Can’t have you feeling left out, can we?” The twins tell him, trapping him under their arms and squeezing him tight. “Thank you,” George whispers more quietly into his ear.

“It’s fine!” Harry squeaks. As much as he feels determined not to flush darkly (as he is, apparently, wont to), he also feels that he has not much choice in the matter. Mrs Weasley hugs him tighter than he’s ever been hugged before. Mr Weasley ruffles his hair and pats him on the shoulder, and Fred pokes him, grinning, in the cheeks. Even Percy shakes him firmly by the hand and pats his arm before retreating back to Oliver Wood at the sidelines, who is for some reason also present. Emotional support, he supposes.

It’s when he glances over to the faint-looking McGonagall that he realises he’s still covered in blood. Both the basilisk’s and his own.

Stumbling over his words, it takes him nearly half an hour to tell them the whole story, starting all the way back when he’d heard the voice in the walls in September. Ron holds his hand the entire time, stuck by the paralysing stress, fear, and the adhesion of slime and blood.


	3. Third Year

#####  **\- 13 -**

“Hullo Harry!” greets Mr Weasley in the Leaky Cauldron. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” Harry replies, leaving Ron and Hermione to their Crookshanks argument. “I hope you enjoyed your holiday!”

“Indeed I did,” he says, putting down his newspaper. The demented viasge of Sirius Black screams silently up at them. 

“I see they haven’t caught him yet, then.”

“Not yet,” Mr Weasley sighs. “They’ve taken us all off our normal posts to help the search, but nothing yet.”

Mrs Weasley bustles up to them laden with shopping and followed by Ginny, Percy and the twins. Ginny blushes bright red and won’t meet any of their eyes, mumbling a small “Hello,” before dashing off. Percy, in contrast, puffs up his chest and extends a hand to Harry as if Harry hadn’t watched him bumble blindly, half awake and hair wild, around his own kitchen just last summer. The silver badge on his chest gleams, utterly unmissable.

“Harry,” he says solemnly, “how nice to see you.”

Harry takes his hand and tries not to laugh. “Hello, Percy.”

“I hope you’re well?” he asks. Harry thinks he might as well be being introduced to the mayor.

“Very well, thank you,” he begins, but suddenly Percy is being elbowed out of the way. Fred grabs Harry’s hand in both of his and shakes it, bowing lowly over them and grinning madly. 

“Harry!” he says. “Simply  _ splendid _ to see you, old boy—”

“Marvellous,” George interrupts, kicking Fred’s ankles out from under him and seizing Harry’s hand in turn. “Absolutely spiffing!” He smiles and shoots Harry a wink, ignoring Fred’s shouts from the floor. Harry chokes at the sudden tumble of people and almost falls backwards, laughing uncontrollably while heat rises rapidly to his cheeks. George tugs him upright again and sticks his tongue out at Percy’s scowl.

“That’s enough,” Mrs Weasley says.

Fred jumps up and takes her hand instead. “Mum!” he says, as if he’d only just noticed her. “How really corking to see you—”

“I said,  _ that’s enough,” _ she repeats, glaring at the both of them and depositing her shopping on a chair. “Hello Harry, dear,” she says, pulling him into a hug. “I suppose you’ve heard our exciting news? Second Head Boy in the family!”

“And last,” Fred mutters.

“I don’t doubt that!” she says. “You two haven’t exactly made Prefects!”

“And what would we want to do that for?” George asks, scrunching up his face. “Sucks all the fun out of life, doesn’t it?”

“Your idea of fun is beyond normal,” Ron scoffs.

Ginny giggles, and Harry laughs again. “I wouldn’t want to be chasing us around the halls after hours, either.”

“He gets it!”

“You ought to be setting a better example for your sister!” Mrs Weasley snaps. “Honestly, you four…” Harry frowns a little. Maybe she’d accidentally counted Percy, with all the fuss going on around her.

“Ginny has other brothers to set her an example, Mother,” Percy says imperiously. “I’m going to change for dinner.”

“We tried to shut him in a pyramid,” George tells Harry quietly. “Mum spotted us.” 

Harry ducks his head and holds a hand over his laughter, skin still burning where it had been shaken over and over again.

“All right, Harry?” Ron asks.

“Yep,” he manages, somewhat strangled, “just fine.”

######  _ \- x - _

“Ron?” comes Ginny’s voice from the newly opened compartment door. Crookshanks hisses, but Harry can’t see where he is. He hopes Neville hasn’t sat on him again.

“Ginny?”

“We have her,” says Fred. How many people are hovering outside their door, again?

“Come in, then,” Ron hisses. “Don’t hang around. Lock the door!”

“Quiet,” says a hoarse voice, just as someone falls into Harry’s lap. Someone tall and heavy, so probably neither Ginny nor Crookshanks. Regardless, it seems that Professor Lupin has woken up at last. He’s probably not quite so impressed with them.

“Sorry there,” whispers one of the twins on Harry’s lap. “Is that you Harry? It’s me, George.”

“Yeah,” he barely whispers back, suddenly finding his breaths coming more and more quickly in the tight squeeze of the compartment. George shuffles over his lap in an attempt to slide onto the next seat, managing to pull Harry’s robes sharply as he goes. 

A creeping cold sweeps into the carriage. Rain batters at a window that is slowly frosting over, turning to ice and slush even as it falls. Ron rips his splayed hand away from the glass and it leaves an outline, soon overtaken and removed. Their breaths tumble like Aunt Petunia’s chiffon scarves in the air between them. Harry feels like the only warmth left is that radiating from the side George has pressed to his.

Professor Lupin shushes them when the train lurches, and they all fall silent. Within the moment he appears in the corner of the cabin, his face floating eerily above what looks like a small hearth of flames in his palm. His eyes flick between each of them, unexpectedly alert and highly wary.

“Stay here,” he says and stands up. He doesn’t make it to the door before the handle clicks and rises, unlocking itself. The barest glance of something pale, slimy and skeletal flickers in the firelight on the other side of the glass. The door begins to pull back, and they realise that the figure outside had been taken so well by the darkness because… Well, it looks like it  _ is _ the darkness. The coal black cloak of the creature, floating as if suspended without gravity, ripples unnervingly. The decaying grey hand slips back between its barely visible folds, and the harrowing sound of a hollow, wheezing inhale sends the worst of all shivers down Harry’s spine.

“Oh, shit,” Fred whimpers nearby. A hand—a  _ warm _ hand, human, alive—clamps tightly around Harry’s wrist.

The creature breathes again, more strongly this time though it sounds even more ill, and the blood in Harry’s very veins seems to slow and freeze. He can’t feel his fingers, or his toes, or the warmth of George’s hand. He isn’t even present, in that moment, because nothing matters. Nowhere, nobody, nothing matters. Why would it?

Harry chokes. He can no longer see. Everything is just dark, dark,  _ dark. _

Somewhere, far away, a woman is screaming.

He wakes up on the floor.

“Harry!  _ Harry!” _ someone shouts near his ear. They slap him in the face. Gently, but they slap him nonetheless.

“Hey,” he groans, and lifts leaden limbs to swat Ron’s hands away from him. His eyes open and immediately shut against the sudden onslaught, pain lancing through his temples in the beginning of an immense headache.

The lights are back on. Lanterns hover above them and jostle in motion with the floor, through which Harry can feel wheels clattering on rails. The train is back on the move, and the creature has disappeared from the doorway.

Speaking of feeling, his head is throbbing something awful. His throat is parched and crackling, and he feels ill in the worst way possible. A cold sweat has broken over his forehead and his whole body feels heavier than life. His only fortune is the warmth in Ron’s touch and whatever he’s lying on, which feels suspiciously like a person’s lap.

He opens his eyes again, still blinking against the light. Once he fumbles for his glasses several faces swim into view, the closest Ron and Hermione’s where they’re leant over him, looking worried. 

“What happened?” Harry asks. “What was that—that thing?”

“Are you okay?” Ron asks instead of answering. 

“Yeah,” Harry lies. “Yeah… Not really.”

“It was a dementor,” says one of the twins, face appearing above his.

“George?” Harry asks, squinting. “What?”

“He caught you,” Hermione says quietly. “You—you—”

“Who was screaming? Are they okay?”

They look between each other nervously, hesitating.

“Harry,” she says, “no one screamed.”

A loud snap startles all of them. “Dementors are the prison guards of Azkaban,” says Professor Lupin, back in his corner, who is now breaking an outrageously large chocolate bar into pieces. He hands a piece to Harry and then shares the rest between his friends. Ginny, Harry realises, is shivering in the other corner by the door, wide-eyed and curled in on herself. Hermione gets up and nudges Fred and Neville gently away so she can sit on her other side and help them console her.

“Eat,” Professor Lupin says. “It’ll help.” He looks up at the rest of them, smiling gently but reassuringly. “Now, I need to speak to the driver. If you’ll excuse me…”

As soon as he’s gone, all of their eyes return to Harry. 

“What happened?” he asks.

“The dementor,” Fred says, “it sort of looked around—well, you can’t see its face, but it did—and then you sort of… Seized. Went completely rigid and fell forward. You were lucky one of us had hold of you.” 

“Professor Lupin just stepped right over you and up to the thing,” Ron picks up, sounding awed. “He said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go,’ but then the dementor didn’t move, right, so he held out his wand and muttered something and this silvery thing appeared and drove it away!”

They nod between themselves, staring into nothing and making odd expressions. Harry winces and shifts in George’s lap, which is comfortable and warm and somewhere he isn’t racing to leave.

“It was horrible,” Neville croaks eventually. “Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?”

“Arctic,” Fred agrees.

“I felt weird,” Ron says. “Like I’d never be cheerful again.”

“Scared the shit out of us, though, you did,” George says, gazing down at Harry with a slight frown. “When you went and made it look like it was killing you.”

“Sorry,” Harry breathes. He stares right back, holding his gaze in oscillating uncertainty.

Someone clears their throat, and Harry’s eyes snap to the person in the doorway. Professor Lupin is back and leaning against the frame.

“I haven’t poisoned the chocolate, you know,” he says, and Harry remembers the thing now melting between his fingers. He takes a bite out of it and is amazed at the instantaneous relief that echoes through him, starting at his lips and meeting the warmth of George at his shoulders. “We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes. Are you all right, Harry?”

“Fine, thank you,” Harry says, pushing himself upright by his elbows.

He smiles. “Glad to hear it. Go on now, you lot, better get ready.”

######  _ \- x - _

Malfoy looks up, sees Harry, and immediately pretends to swoon over the breakfast table. His housemates erupt into a wave of raucous laughter and Harry bristles.

“Ignore them,” Hermione repeats, like mantra. “Just ignore them, it’s not worth it…” 

“Hey, Potter!” shrieks Pansy Parkinson. “Potter! The dementors are coming, Potter!  _ Woooooo!” _

_ “Ignore.” _

Harry drops into the next seat at the Gryffindor table.

“Here, third year timetables,” says George, handing him the stack. “What’s up with you?”

“Malfoy,” Ron snarls, sitting on George’s right hand side. George turns around in time to see another Malfoy reenactment, watching the words  _ Potter, wimp, _ and  _ weakling _ flow easily from his mouth.

“Since last night,” Harry mumbles.

“That little git!” Fred says, loudly, slamming his fists on the table. “I’d like to see  _ him _ take one on!”

George stands, suddenly, and leans out between the tables. 

“One more word from you and I’ll hex your ears off, you nasty piece of work!” he shouts. Everything around them grinds to a stop.

_ “Mr Weasley!” _ cries McGonagall, striding into the hall. She comes to a halt in front of him and stares sternly down, impervious to her command of the sudden attention of several hundred other students. George holds her gaze evenly and lightly. 

“You shouldn’t be threatening younger years with hexes, Weasley.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” he replies, looking for all the world like this was a normal conversation. Harry doesn’t know how he can stand up to her and not fear for his life. Practise, maybe.

Against all odds, Professor McGonagall nods once, sharply, and continues on her way. He  _ must _ be seeing things, though, because he might have said she was struggling with the beginnings of a  _ smile. _

######  _ \- x - _

“Find yourself a boyfriend, Potter?” Malfoy sneers cruelly.

“Oh shut  _ up, _ will you?” Ron snaps. He takes hold of Harry’s shoulder and stomps away.

“Don’t tell me he’s going to be looking after you now!” the prick cackles. “Or are you too precious to do it yourself?”

“How creative, Malfoy,” they hear Hermione sniff behind them. “Really inspiring.”

It’s fair to say that he doesn’t try another of his reenactments, though. At least not where they can see him.

######  _ \- x - _

“It’s going to be a tough one,” says Oliver Wood to the grooves on the table. He hasn’t touched his breakfast.

“Stop worrying, Oliver,” Alicia soothes. “We don’t mind a bit of rain.”

“You’ve played in worse than this,” yawns Percy, plonking himself down beside Wood. He looks just like his completely put-together self except for the sleep in his eyes and the wonkiness of his glasses, but it doesn’t stop him stealing Wood’s toast in a most un-Percy-like manner, and telling him through his mouthful, “For goodness sake, eat something before I force it down you.”

“Is that a limp we saw, Mr Head Boy?” asks Fred, leaning across about three feet of table and leering most strangely. 

“None of your business,” Percy replies. He doesn’t even bother turning to look at him.

######  _ \- x - _

“We’re lucky the ground was so soft.”

“I thought he was dead for sure.”

“Didn’t even break his glasses, did he?”

Harry’s eyes snap open to, once again, the sight of Ron and Hermione leaning over him worriedly. This time, from the familiar perspective of a bed in the hospital wing, he can also see the faces of all his teammates gathered around him. Every single one of them looks like they’ve been swimming in the lake, and George is right: the glasses digging sharply into his face are completely break-free.

“Harry!” Fred says. Underneath all the mud his skin looks startlingly white. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened,” Harry rasps, phasing through the last five minutes of his memory in a rush. He sits up so quickly that they all gasp.

“You fell,” George says.

Fred nods. “It was probably fifty feet straight down.”

“We thought you’d died,” Alicia adds. She’s shaking. Harry is sure someone should’ve given them towels already.

“The match, what happened?” he presses. “Are we having a replay?” All of them stare down at him, wordless. “We didn’t… Did we lose?”

“Diggory got the snitch just after you fell,” George seems to blurt. “He didn’t realise until after, tried to call it off…”

“They won fair and square,” Angelina says, quietly. “Even Wood says so.”

Harry looks around. Frowns. “Where is he?” 

“Still in the showers,” Fred says. “We think he’s trying to drown himself.”

“Percy’s trying to get him out,” Ron mutters.

Angelina sighs. “So he’s either drowned or with Percy. We won’t see him for hours.”

Harry leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees and tugging frustrated fingers through his hair. Fred takes his shoulder and shakes him.

“C’mon, Harry, you’ve never missed the snitch before. You can’t be perfect all the time.”

George sits on the edge of his bed next to Ron and smiles, carefully. “You’re still our best seeker, you just get the shit end of every deal.”

Harry scoffs and looks away to hide the terrible reddening of his face. How humiliating. “Tell me about it.”

He sits and listens to his team calculate their odds on winning the cup through the other house matches. It’s a soothing flow of voices over Harry’s internal run through of events—the black dog, the dementors, the screaming… 

“We’ll see you later!” Fred promises when, several matches and hundreds of points later, Madam Pomfrey stands at the end of his bed and throws the team out by their ears. The door slams behind them and she tuts, glancing to Ron and Hermione and running cursory drying charms over them.

“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione begins. Her voice is trembling, and Harry realises he should probably apologise for worrying her all the time.

######  _ \- x - _

“Psst!” someone hisses down the third floor corridor. “Harry!”

Harry pauses and looks around. A little behind him, Fred and George are peering out, grinning, from behind a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Why aren’t you in Hogsmeade?”

“We’ve come to bestow a little bit of festive cheer before we go,” Fred says. He winks, and Harry tries not to laugh. “Come in here!”

Harry follows them into the adjacent empty classroom. George closes the door and turns to him, beaming.

“Early Christmas present for you, Harry!” he announces, looking ever so pleased with himself. Fred pulls a large piece of parchment from an inside pocket and lays it out across one of the desks with a flourish. It’s empty, clear of even a joke or caricature.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he asks, stepping closer to lean in over it.

“This is the secret to our success!” George says.

“It’s a wrench giving it to you, mind,” Fred sighs, “but we decided your need’s greater than ours. Plus, Georgie—”

George elbows Fred in the ribs, hard. “We know it off by heart,” he says. “We bequeath it to you.”

Harry looks at him expectantly. “So what do I need with a bit of old parchment?”

“A bit of old parchment!” Fred cries, still holding his side. “Merlin, man…”

“When we were in our first year,” George explains, “when we were young, free, innocent…” Harry snorts. Likely story. “Well, more than we are now. But back then we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off this dungbomb, see, and it upset him for some reason,” Fred continues. “Started threatening us with all the usual detention, disembowelment, and while he was busy doing that, we noticed this cabinet marked ‘Confiscated and highly dangerous.’” 

“Don’t tell me,” Harry says, snickering, “you broke in.”

“What would you have done?” George retorts scathingly. “Anyway, I created the diversion and Fred got the thing open and grabbed—this.”

“Don’t make it sound so bad!” Fred rolls his eyes. “Anyway, Filch never found out how to work it, probably doesn’t even know what it is.”

“And you do?”

“Of course. This beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school!”

Harry huffs. “You’re having me on.”

“Oh,” George says. A smirk finds its way smoothly onto his lips. “Are we?”

Holding Harry’s gaze quite intently, George draws his wand from his sleeve and taps it to the paper. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Harry takes in a short breath and tears his eyes from George. Thin lines of ink tumble from the tip of George’s wand and spider their way across the parchment. They join, cross, spiral around each other to the very corners of the page before giving way to large, curling letters.

_ Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, _

_ Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, _

_ are proud to present: _

_ The Marauder’s Map _

The parchment is a map. A map to the whole of Hogwarts grounds, with every single tiny detail. Harry gasps and follows it around, because the truly remarkable thing about it is the tiny ink dots of footsteps walking their way around it, each labelled with miniscule names.

“That’s Dumbledore, pacing in his office,” Fred says. “Does that a lot.”

“Are those…?”

“Secret passages?” George finishes, ducking his head to grin at Harry. “Right into Hogsmeade.”

“There are seven in all,” Fred says, pointing to each in turn. “Filch knows about this one, this one, this one and this one, and the one here behind the mirror has caved in, so don’t bother. This one looks good, but the Whomping willow has been growing over the entrance, so the one you’ll really be wanting is here. Right outside the door.”

“The one-eyed witch,” Harry says.

Fred nods. “Leads right into Honeydukes’ cellar.”

“We owe them so much, these four,” George says, patting the header fondly. “Oh! And remember to wipe it after you’re done, or anyone can see it.”

Fred taps his wand to the paper this time, and says, “Mischief managed.”

The map clears near-instantly. The ink washes away to the edges of the paper as if water has spilled from his wandpoint.

“This is amazing,” Harry breathes.

“So, young Harry,” says Fred in his uncanny impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself now.”

“And we’ll see you in Honeydukes,” says George with another wink.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. “See you there.”

_ Oh, _ Harry thinks then, and it’s not about the map.  _ Oh. Oh no. _

Fred grins and slaps his shoulder on his way out.

######  _ \- x - _

Ron takes the loss of Scabbers terribly.

“Come on, Ron, you were always lamenting how boring he was!” Fred scoffs. “He’s been off-colour for ages, wasting away! Probably better for him to snuff it quickly—one quick swallow, he wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

“Fred!” Ginny says indignantly. “Have a heart!”

“All he did was eat and sleep, Ron, you said so yourself,” says George. He shifts a little and glances to Harry as if to say,  _ Help. _

Harry tries his best to neither laugh nor blush.  _ He’s your brother! _

“He bit Goyle for us once!” Ron recalls miserably. “Remember, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “That’s true.”

“His finest hour,” Fred agrees, unable to keep a straight face for the life of him. “Let the scar on Goyle’s finger stand as a testament to his mettle. Oh, come on, Ron. Get yourself down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat—what’s the point of moaning?”

Harry doesn’t want to agree, for Ron’s sake, but he’d never been particularly attached to Scabbers himself. If he can't stop himself sneaking another look to George, just to gauge his reaction, that’s normal right?

######  _ \- x - _

That’s a lie. Harry hasn’t been blind to Colin’s (annoying, horrible) hero worship, Ron’s blushing about Madam Rosmerta, or Ginny’s refusal to look him in the eye. He knows what this is, he just doesn’t want to think about it. 

Thinking about it means accepting it exists.

######  _ \- x - _

“Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?” drawls Draco Malfoy, once a-bloody-gain. “Boyfriend buy it for you? Oh wait, sorry, he can’t—!”

“Will you  _ shut up?” _ snaps Ginny. Everyone glances to her, impressed, but Malfoy only sneers. 

“It’s got all sorts of features, hasn’t it? Pity it doesn’t come with a parachute—you know, in case of  _ dementors.” _

Crabbe and Goyle snigger, but Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Pity you can’t attach an arm to yours, Malfoy,” he says. “Then maybe it could catch the snitch for you.”

The Gryffindor table bursts into laughter. Malfoy narrows his eyes and stalks off, robes fluttering behind him in a piss-poor approximation of Snape’s.

“Who’s this boyfriend, then?” George asks, grinning mischieviously.

“You, apparently,” Harry says, and tries his best not to feel embarrassed about it.

“Me, eh?” he says. “At least you have good taste. I can’t wait to start sending bludgers his way.”

“That’ll wipe that smile off his face,” Fred laughs. “Needs a good few to the head, doesn’t he?”

Ron scoffs. “More than a few.”

######  _ \- x - _

Harry veers out of the way of a very inconvenient bludger and the damned snitch vanishes. The Gryffindor end of the stands lets out a great groan of disappointment while the Ravenclaw-Slytherins cheer loudly. George belts a second bludger as hard as he can at the offending Ravenclaw beater, and Harry feels somewhat vindicated.

To a backdrop of Lee Jordan’s stilted, Firebolt-centred commentary, Ravenclaw claw through their first thirty points. 

“HARRY!” Wood roars when Cho cuts him off again. “THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN. KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!”

Harry grins and leads her on a merry dance around the pitch, diving and whirling and all the while looking frantically for the snitch.

“Oh!” she yelps, only a few feet away from him, and points down to the grass. There, gathered on the pitch are three tall, hooded dementors. 

Harry wastes no time in retrieving his wand. He points it at the dementors and hollers,  _ “EXPECTO PATRONUM!” _ and is shocked and delighted when a large silvery object erupts from the end. He doesn’t wait to watch it, revelling in the clearheadedness he’s somehow maintained and shooting off across the pitch again.

The snitch is there, fluttering right in front of him, and with the hand still grasping his wand he stretches out and catches it.

Madam Hooch’s whistle slices through the air. He holds the snitch aloft and just breathes, grinning at the six scarlet blurs swooping down to meet him.

“That’s my boy!” Wood yells, exuberant. “That’s my  _ boy!” _

All five Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Fred and George pounce on him, kissing and hugging and squeezing so tightly he loses track of who’s who for most of the way down to the ground. They manage to disentangle, though still in overjoyed disarray, to meet the gaggle of Gryffindor supporters racing onto the pitch. Ron leads the way, pelting towards them as if his life depends on it.

“YES!” he yells, colliding with Harry and yanking his arm into the air. “Yes!  _ Yes!” _

“Good on you, Harry!” Seamus hollers.

“Well done!” cries Percy, running up to Oliver and kissing him straight on the mouth. Dozens of people gasp and cheer as Oliver responds more than enthusiastically and they go crashing to the ground.

“Where’s my kiss!” demands Fred, just as Ron shrieks, “I thought he was dating Penelope Clearwater!” Angelina hits them both over the back of the head.

“I fucking hope not!” Oliver replies, tearing himself away from red-faced Percy and laughing uncontrollably.

“Ruddy brilliant!” Hagrid booms over the chaos. So much noise and movement means Harry doesn’t notice the person sneaking up on him until he speaks almost into his ear.

“That was quite some patronus,” he says, and Harry turns around, beaming.

“Professor!” Harry says. “The dementors—they didn’t affect me at all!”

“That would be because they, er, weren’t dementors,” Professor Lupin grimaces. “Come and see.”

Ron, still holding onto Harry, jogs beside them, and folds himself over howling with laughter. On the ground are Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Marcus Flint, desperately trying to free themselves from long black sheets. McGonagall stands over them, berating them with the full force of her fury.

“Come on Harry!” says George, fighting his way through the crowd. “Party! Gryffindor common room, now!”

“Coming!” he and Ron reply, and lead the march with the team off the pitch side.

######  _ \- x - _

“Did you know my brother kissed you?” Ron says suddenly, an hour into the party. Harry almost drops his drink. 

“What?” he splutters.

Ron shrugs. “We couldn’t see well, but he definitely did.”

Harry licks his bottom lip. “Which one?”

A large hand slaps itself over Ron’s mouth, and Fred leans in between them. “Ah-ah, now,” he says. “That would be telling!”

He winks at Harry before he saunters off, and Ron watches after him, highly disturbed.

Of course, that could also be because he’s just spotted Percy and Oliver in the corner.

######  _ \- x - _

And then Ron wakes the whole house screaming. Everything goes a bit tits-up from there.

######  _ \- x - _

“YOU!” Hermione shouts, striding out across the grounds. “You foul, loathsome,  _ evil little cockroach!” _

Malfoy cowers at the end of her wand. His eyes are screwed tightly shut and he’s whimpering. It’s pathetic.

“Hermione, no!” Ron cries. “He’s not worth it.”

Harry watches her mutely. She stands there for a long moment, possibly debating the merits of hexing the git to high heavens. Eventually she lowers her wand, however slowly, and turns her head to look at them. Ron gulps.

Malfoy and his lot start to laugh weakly. Harry can see him regaining his footing and takes a step forward to give him what-for himself when—

_ SMACK! _

Hermione whips back around and punches Malfoy square in the nose. He reels back and cracks his head on the rocky outcropping, clutching his face. Crabbe and Goyle dive for him, floundering without his instructions. He whimpers and yelps and scrambles away.

“Not a word of this to anybody, you hear me!” they hear him saying as he leaves. Hermione turns fully back to Harry and Ron, breathing shakily. 

“That felt good.”

“Not  _ good!” _ Ron says.  _ “Brilliant!” _ Harry grins and claps her on the shoulder.

“You’d better beat him in the quidditch final, Harry!” she insists. “I can’t  _ stand _ the thought of his gloating if they win!”

“I could always throw another patronus at him,” he says. She thumps him lightly on the chest, but smiles.

######  _ \- x - _

When Oliver stands and yells, “Team! Bed!” across the common room, it comes as a relief. 

Harry gets up immediately and heads for the door, waiting for Ron and Hermione to join him.

“You’ll be fine!” Hermione says for maybe the sixth time and throws her arms around him. He nods grimly and pats her on the back, startling when a large hand comes down on his head.

“All right, Potter,” says Fred, grinning down at him. Despite his raucous manner he’s still tight around the corners of his eyes. George comes past next and thumps his arm across the back of Harry’s shoulders. 

“Get some sleep, yeah?” he says. “Can’t have you taking another tumble, you might not wake up next time!”

His warmth burns through Harry’s skin long after he’s turned out the lights and rolled over into bed.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry holds the Quidditch House Cup above his head in unparalleled delight. Oliver is sobbing nearby, crumpled on the ground, and Fred and George are trying to lift Harry onto their shoulders. Angelina picks him up and helps them, so he passes the cup to her. 

“TO OUR INCREDIBLE CHASERS!” he yells, and the sea of red yells it right back. The girls giggle and begin to cry, too.

“Here you go Harry!” Fred shouts, and they throw him into the air. Harry shrieks and falls to the ground in front of Ron and Hermione, landing astoundingly, if unsteadily, on his feet.

“Harry!” Hermione cheers. He throws himself at the both of them and hugs them tightly.

“We won the cup!” he says.  _ “We won!” _

######  _ \- x - _

They find Scabbers. Ron goes down the rabbit hole.

######  _ \- x - _

“You’ll have to kill  _ me _ first!” Ron shouts. He throws himself in front of Harry and Hermione despite the surely debilitating pain in his leg. Harry can’t breathe for the weight of his emotions.

######  _ \- x - _

Dumbledore locks them in the hospital wing and sends them back in time. Harry gapes at Hermione as she drags him into a cupboard before they see  _ themselves. _

_ Holy Christ, _ he thinks.  _ Magic is incredible. _

Sirius hugs him before he leaves, but it doesn’t hurt any less to see him go. They sprint back up the clock tower and towards the hospital wing, catching Dumbledore just before he leaves. At the same time as he wants to hug Hermione and maybe kiss her, Harry wants to punch a wall and scream at the unfairness of it all.

######  _ \- x - _

“You’re alive!” cries Fred when the doors to the hospital wing open. He, Ginny, George and Percy are standing outside, smiling at them.

“How are you feeling, Ron?” Percy asks, watching the way he limps out.

“Great, honestly,” Ron tells him. Fred and George come up to thump Harry and Hermione on the back.

“How daring we all are, eh? Surviving another encounter with Sirius Black!”

“Oh,” Hermione giggles, “it definitely isn’t what you think.”

Harry chews on his lip for only a second before he makes up his mind. “C’mon, you lot, we have to tell you something.”

“Ginny,” Ron says, “don’t you have girls to go and talk to, or something?”

“Oh that’s  _ charming,” _ she drawls, making a face at him.

“What are you talking about, Ron?” Hermione says sharply. “Come on, Ginny. We’ll go down and sit by the lake.”

The girls stalk off in front of them and take the best grassy spots for themselves. Harry sits down next to Ron and they explain the last few days in detail—Sirius, Pettigrew, Trelawney’s weird freak out and all. Ginny gasps when she finds out Sirius is Harry’s godfather and again when they tell her he’s innocent. Her eyes water when they tell her how they saved Buckbeak. Hermione hugs her and laughs.

“Blimey, you three,” says George. “Been through the wringer enough yet?”

“Don’t jinx it,” Harry grumbles. “I still have Voldemort on my tail.”

“So you think Black’s innocent?” Percy asks. “Do you know how preposterous that sounds?”

“Think about it, Perce,” Ron says, exasperated. “A garden rat we found twelve years ago, missing a toe; the fact it lived so long is a miracle in itself! Pettigrew fakes his own death at the same time, framing a grieving man from an infamously pureblood, Slytherin family, who is not lending himself to particular sanity on the day he goes for revenge. Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

“Never mind that he confessed to our faces,” Harry points out. Percy remains silently frowning at the ground.

“Bloody hell, Perce, what more do you want?” asks Fred. “Testimony under veritaserum?”

Percy jerks and looks to him, horrified. “No, no, you needn’t go that far,” he concedes. “Though if you were to convince the Minister, that would be a good way to try…”

“I don’t think Dumbledore wants to,” Harry admits. He pulls at the grass half-heartedly.

“Do  _ you _ want to?” George asks.

“Of course I do, Sirius will be given to the dementors if he’s caught! He—” he stops, works past the lump in his throat. “He said he’d take me away from the Dursleys if I wanted to go… as if I’d say no. We could have… made a life for ourselves. He could have told me about my mum and dad, about him and Professor Lupin and their friends, and, and—”

Ron shuffles closer and drapes an arm around his shoulders. George does the same on his other side, hesitant but reassuring. Despite however guilty Harry feels for his selfishness, his petty indulgence—it’s not the right time, he should be thinking of other, more important things, anything’s more important than his ridiculous  _ feelings _ —he leans into George, tucked beneath his arm. 

It feels nice. Safe. 

His heart flutters.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Don’t apologise,” Hermione says immediately. “It’s not your fault.”

“’Arry?” calls Hagrid’s joyfully booming voice. “Is that you?”


	4. Fourth Year, I

#####  **\- 14 -**

The Dursleys are on edge all day. It’s ridiculous, really, the amount of fuss over a single, unwanted meeting. Dudley is most amusingly distressed, but Harry can’t help but want to snap when he shoots wordlessly into the hall where Harry is sitting.

“What is it?” he asks. “What’s the matter?”

But Dudley merely scuttled sideways to the kitchen, mute. Harry stands with a huff and makes his way to the living room, where his aunt and uncle are cowering in the corner. Loud thuds and bangings sound from behind the wall of the Dursleys’ boarded up fireplace along with heavy sighings and mutterings.

“Oh no,” Harry says.

“What is it?” Aunt Petunia blathers. “What is it, Vernon?”

There’s a muffled swishing noise and more scuffling, and suddenly voices can be heard loud and clear through the wall. 

“Ouch, Fred!” cries Mr Weasley. “No! Go back through! Tell George—Ouch,  _ George! _ Go back and tell Ron—”

“Maybe Harry can hear us, Dad,” says one of the twins—probably Fred. “Maybe he’ll let us out! Harry! Harry! Can you hear us?”

The banging starts up again in earnest, and Harry can imagine them behind the bricks and plasterboard, battering their fists against it. He snorts and giggles, and slaps a hand to his face to cover it. Uncle Vernon rounds on him like a particularly mean hedgehog.

“What is this!” he demands. “What’s going on!?”

“They’ve—They’ve tried to come through the Floo Network,” Harry manages. “They’re travelling by the fireplaces, only you’ve blocked yours up. Hold on…” He walks up to the flue and taps gently. “Mr Weasley? Can you hear me?” The hammering stops in an instant. “It’s Harry. They’ve blocked off the fireplace, you won’t be able to get through this way.”

“Damn,” says Mr Weasley. “Whatever have they done that for?”

“They have an electric fire,” Harry replies, unable to stop his smile.

“Have they really!” is the excited reply. “An ecklectic fire, with a  _ plug? _ How marvellous! Hmm, lets thi—ouch! Ron!”

“Sorry,” says Ron’s voice, sounding not at all sorry. “What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?”

“Oh, no, Ron,” Fred drawls. “No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.”

“Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here,” says George who sounds quite muffled, as if he’s pressed up against a wall. Harry bursts out laughing and tries his best to ignore how his cheeks are warming at the thought.

He’d tried rather determinedly not to think about  _ things _ over the holiday. He’d basked in the happiness of knowing his godfather, he’d bolstered it by writing letters to his friends and thinking about flying. But now that they’re all back and coming to save him, it’s undeniable that Harry’s weird affection-admiration has become a full blown crush. Above all else he’s sort of disgusted by himself, and fuck, thinking about it is just making it  _ worse. _

“Boys, boys,” says Mr Weasley vaguely from the chimney. “I’m trying to think… Yes, probably the only way… Stand back Harry!”

Harry scrambles back, fully aware of his intentions. Uncle Vernon, however, takes an unwise step forward. He opens his mouth, certainly to start complaining, but never gets the chance.

_ BANG! _ and the electric fire flies forward, along with the rest of the plasterboard. The parade of Weasleys are expelled in a mess of dust and loose chippings. Aunt Petunia falls backwards over the coffee table, thankfully caught by Uncle Vernon before she hits the floor.

“That’s better!” says Mr Weasley. “Ah, you must be Harry’s aunt and uncle!” 

Harry dusts off his glasses and watches in some morbid fascination as poor Mr Weasley tries to explain the Floo to the Dursleys. He’s certain they understand none of it, though none of the Weasleys seem to realise.

“Hello, Harry!” Mr Weasley says finally, and pulls him into a fierce hug and a hair ruffle. 

“Harry!” Ron grins and steps forward to hug him too, which Harry does his best to respond to without being pulled off his toes. Fred bows dramatically and returns his friendly side hug, but Harry must glance from the floor to George and back again at least three times before he works up the courage to do the same for him. This is really getting ridiculous.

“Trunk ready? Things packed?” asks Mr Weasley. 

Harry nods. “It’s all upstairs.”

“We’ll get it!” Fred volunteers, winking as he and George skip past into the hallway. Harry’s betting they just want to find Dudley; they’ve heard a lot about him in the common room, after all.

“Well, this is a very nice place you have here,” says Mr Weasley, looking around with undisguised curiosity. Uncle Vernon bristles and goes purple, especially when Mr Weasley starts investigating all the devices.

“Had a good summer?” he asks Ron while his dad tries to make conversation. “How is everyone? Percy driving you up the wall?”

“It’s been pretty good,” Ron sniffs, wiping dust from his cheek. “Percy’s Percy—brought Wood round for a bit though, and that was weird. Ginny’s been talking about Hermione a lot. You’d think she’d have her own friends…”

Dudley picks his moment to reenter the room. Harry hears his trunk thudding down the stairs and assumes it scared him out of the kitchen.

“Is this your cousin, Harry?” Mr Weasley asks, stepping forward and once again holding out a hand. 

“Yep,” Harry says. “That’s Dudley.” He and Ron exchange guilty glances and both fail to hide their laughter. Fred and George return with his things, surveying the room. The moment they spot Dudley they crack identically evil grins, and upon seeing  _ those, _ Mr Weasley hastens their retreat.

“Better get cracking, then!” he says, and pulls out his wand. The Dursleys cower satisfyingly against the wall. 

“Incendio!” he casts, and a small fire appears in the hole in the chimney breast. He removes a drawstring pouch from his robes and takes a pinch of floo powder from inside. Throwing it on the fire, he gestures to Fred. “Off you go then.” 

Fred bends to pick up Hedwig’s cage and a large bag of sweets spills from his cardigan pocket. “Oh no!” he says theatrically as several brightly-wrapped toffees roll across the floor. He scoops them back hurriedly and steps into the fire, ignoring Aunt Petunia’s strangled shriek. 

“The Burrow!” he calls out, and disappears.

“You next George.”

Harry helps him carry his trunk into the flames, standing it on end. “The Burrow!” George says, and disappears similarly. Ron follows, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he passes.

“Well, bye then,” Harry says to the Dursleys, supremely unconcerned and frankly itching to leave. Mr Weasley keeps him from stepping into the fire. 

“Harry said goodbye to you,” he tells the Dursleys. “Didn’t you hear him?”

Harry shakes his head. “It really doesn’t matter, I don’t care.”

“You aren’t going to see your nephew until next summer,” he presses. “Surely you’ll say goodbye?”

Harry doesn’t even bother to look at Uncle Vernon as he eventually wrenches out his goodbye.

“See you,” he says, and steps into the fire. He opens his mouth, but is distracted by an unusual choking noise from the corner of the room. He whips around to see Dudley on the floor, red in the face, with a large, slimy, purple-ish thing protruding from his mouth. On second glance he realises that it’s his  _ tongue, _ and that the wrapper of one of Fred’s toffees is glinting next to him on the ground. 

Mr Weasley rushes in to help, but Harry can’t help but balk in amazement—amused amazement. Predictably, Aunt Petunia freaks out and starts screaming, unsuccessfully covering Dudley’s body with her own, spindly one. Uncle Vernon starts throwing things at Mr Weasley and Harry stops laughing, eyes flicking around for something to get hold of before Mr Weasley shouts to him.

“Harry! Go! Just Go!” Harry hesitates, but a fragile china ornament spins past his ear and shatters on the wall.

“The Burrow!” he shouts, and the Dursleys’ living room spins away from under him.

“Did he eat it?” Fred asks immediately, accosting him in the hearth. He pulls Harry to his feet and brings him into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “What  _ was _ it?”

“Ton-Tongue Toffee!” he says proudly. “George and I invented them, we’ve been looking to test them for ages.”

The kitchen explodes into laughter. Harry looks around Fred to see Ron and George at the scrubbed wooden table, sat with two other redheads that Harry’s only ever seen in photos: the infamous Bill and Charlie Weasley.

“How are you doing, Harry?” asks the nearer of them. He’s shorter than Percy, like the twins, stockier and stronger, and the hand he holds out to shake is calloused and rough. Harry takes it and smiles; this is definitely Charlie who works with the dragons, Harry’s star seeker predecessor at Hogwarts. “Heard about your matches last year—Ron says you’re a brilliant flier!” 

“Thank you,” Harry says, feeling himself go red again. Blimey, if he thought the younger Weasleys were all good-looking… 

“Hi, Harry,” says Bill, getting to his feet and rounding the table. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

Harry clears his throat and shakes his hand. “Hi,” he says, but it comes out a little weak. He’d imagined Bill-the-curse-breaker-who-could-do-no-wrong to be much more like academic Percy; on the utter contrary, Bill is… Bill is  _ cool. _ His hair is long and tied up in a ponytail, drawing attention to his sharp cheekbones and the fang of an earring dangling from his ear. His clothes wouldn’t be out of place at a rock concert, and his boots are—woah, real dragonhide!

“Dear god, men!” Fred says, crossing his arms. “Stop being so charming or you’ll be whisking him away with you!”

“Yeah,” Ron snickers, “hands off—he’s ours!”

Charlie rolls his eyes good naturedly, but before anyone can say another word, Mr Weasley appears in the kitchen with a loud crack. He looks angrier than Harry has ever seen him before.

“That  _ wasn’t funny, _ Fred!” he shouts. “What on Earth did you give that muggle boy!?”

“I didn’t give him anything!” Fred protests. “I dropped it! I didn’t—”

“You dropped it on purpose!” Mr Weasley cuts him off. “You knew he’d eat it!”   
“How big did his tongue get?” George asks eagerly.

“It was four foot long before his parents would let me anywhere near!”

Harry and the Weasleys all roar with laughter.

“It  _ isn’t funny!” _ Mr Weasley insists. “You are seriously undermining the statute of secrecy! I’ve spent half my life at the Ministry campaigning against the mistreatment of muggles and my own sons—!”

“We didn’t do it because he’s a muggle!” Fred argues.

“We gave it to him because he’s a great, bullying git and it serves him right,” says George. “Doesn’t it, Harry?”

Harry nods, pulling his top lip over his teeth. “Yeah, he’s horrible.”

“That’s not the point!” continues Mr Weasley, though a little deflated. “You wait until I tell your mother—!”

“Tell me what?” asks a voice behind them. Every single person spins to meet the suspicious gaze of Molly Weasley standing in the doorway. Silence descends, and she looks at each one of them in turn. “Oh hello, Harry dear,” she smiles, before snapping her attention back to Mr Weasley. “Tell me what, Arthur?”

Mr Weasley hesitates. Harry looks around to the others, and the motion catches Bill’s attention. Bill watches him for half a second before smiling ruefully and huffing a laugh.

“Fred and George played a prank on Harry’s cousin because he’s mean,” he says. “Dad’s sorted it out, but he was just telling them off.”

“You boys need to listen to your father!” Mrs Weasley shrills immediately. Harry suspects this isn’t the least of her anger, and sends a silent thank you to Bill. “I do  _ not _ want you causing problems for him at work! Do you hear me? And if it’s about this  _ Weasley Wizard Wheezes _ nonsense then you ought to stop before you get yourselves into even more trouble!”

Harry’s attention is caught by the two girls that bob in through the kitchen door, one bushy-haired and one ginger, and both as happy to see him as he is to see them. 

“Hermione! Ginny!” he says, accidentally cutting off Mrs Weasley’s reprimanding as he trots over to say hello. 

“Hello Harry!” Hermione says, giving him a quick hug. 

“Hi,” Ginny says, still going a little bit pink though she looks him in the eye with steady defiance. Harry wonders if she’ll ever get over her shyness.

“Let’s go show Harry where he’s sleeping, Ron,” Hermione suggests. 

Ron tilts his head and furrows his brow. “But he knows, he slept there last year.”

“We can all go,” she says, a bit more pointedly.

“Ah, yeah.” He nods, and slips past his mum.

“We’ll come—” George begins, but his mother holds up a hand.

“Just a  _ minute, _ you two!”

“What are  _ Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” _ Harry asks on the stairs.

“Their great plan,” Ron replies, and he and Ginny laugh. “Mum found stacks of empty order forms in their room! Great long price lists of all the stuff they’ve invented, all the fake wands and joke sweets, it’s brilliant! I never knew they were inventing it all.”

“We’ve heard them exploding things in their room all the time, for years,” Ginny muses. “We just thought they liked the noise.”

“Well, you know some of the stuff—most of it—is a bit dangerous,” Ron says. “They’ve been planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad. Told them they weren’t allowed to make any more of it and burnt all the order forms. She was furious anyway when she found out they hadn’t got as many OWLs as she wanted.”

Ginny sighs. “And then there was this big row because mum wants them to work at the Ministry with Dad, but all they want is to open a joke shop.”

“What?” Harry blurts. “But that’s not fair!”

Ron’s eyebrows twitch up. “How’d you mean?”

“Making all that stuff, that’s amazing!” he says. “They’re really clever to do it! Dad, Sirius and Lupin would be well impressed! What does it matter if they don’t get OWLs and work at the Ministry? They’re loads better than Zonko’s; I bet their shop would be the most popular on the street!”

“They are pretty good,” Ron agrees. “Mum just thinks it’s what’s best.”

“The Ministry isn’t the be-all and end-all,” Harry mumbles.

“You like them, don’t you?” Ginny says loudly, and his heart leaps into his throat. “Our brothers.”

“Huh?” he says. “Of course I do. I like all of your family.”

She looks at him for a moment, assessing, before grinning and running up into Ron’s room. The attic room is much like Harry remembers it, with its sloping ceiling and whirl of bright orange and glow-in-the-dark Chudley Cannons posters. The tank on the windowsill that previously held frogspawn now holds a single, large frog, and the tiny grey owl Sirius had given to Ron is hopping madly around his cage.

“Shut  _ up, _ Pig,” Ron sighs, navigating past three extra beds to get to his own. “Oh yeah, we’re sharing with the twins because Bill and Charlie have their room. Percy gets to keep his own because he’s  _ working.” _

“We are?” Harry asks. Because that’s fine. That’s totally fine. “And why do you keep calling your owl Pig?”

“Percy only wants a room to himself so he can snog Oliver in peace, if you ask me,” giggles Ginny. Hermione snorts and drops onto Harry’s bed, next to her. “And he’s Pig when he’s being stupid. His proper name is Pigwidgeon.” 

“It’ll be like a sleepover for you guys,” Hermione says over Ron, who, Harry suspects, did not name Pigwidgeon.

Harry smiles. “I’ve never had one before.”

“Then all the better!” says Ron. “But it’s not like we get them, either. There’re enough of us already.”

“Psst!” says a voice through the door.

“What’s the password!” Ginny calls. 

There’s some shuffling on the other side. “Uh, Harry Potter fan club committee meeting.”

“Close enough,” she laughs, and the twins kick open the door.

“All right, then?” Fred asks. He drops Harry’s trunk by the door. “Bill said we were to thank you, Harry, for saving us from certain death.”

“No, no!” Harry flusters. “It was definitely all Bill.”

“Well, thanks anyway,” he says, and flops onto one of the beds. George sits cross-legged on the floor.

“Have you had a good summer, Harry?” Hermione asks. “Did you get our food parcels and everything?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry nods, “thanks so much for those. They saved my life, those cakes.”

“And have you heard from Sirius?” Ron asks, sounding very interested.

“Yeah, a couple of times! He’s sending his letters by tropical bird!”

“What a flash bastard,” Fred snorts. “Sounds like he’ll be living it up.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, “but I can’t imagine the dementors will last very long on a sunny desert island.”

“Hmm, probably not… Do you think we should go down and help your mum with dinner?” Hermione asks. Ginny wrinkles her nose.

“Probably,” she says. “Let’s hope she isn’t still angry.”

######  _ \- x - _

After the short toffee debacle the next morning, the atmosphere in the Burrow is not as jovial as Harry is used to when they make their departure. Mrs Weasley is still glowering as she kisses Mr Weasley and her children goodbye, though doesn’t fail to find warm hugs for Harry and Hermione. Fred and George hoist their rucksacks onto their shoulders and stalk out without a word.

“Have a lovely time,” she tells them. “And  _ behave yourselves! _ Bill, Charlie and Percy will be with you around midday!”

“Bye, Mum,” say Ron and Ginny.

“Bye, Mrs Weasley,” Harry echoes, before they all hurry off after the twins over dewey ground. Harry and Ginny catch up quickly, walking in silent solidarity to their fuming tension.

“Sorry,” George says suddenly. He doesn’t add anything, doesn’t explain, but he doesn’t have to. Harry looks down at the hand swinging by George’s side and remembers the May of his second year. 

He reaches out, ever so gently, and takes his fingers between his own. George looks down in surprise. Harry tries to smile encouragingly. He squeezes their hands once, and lets go.

######  _ \- x - _

_ “…You beat Harry Potter!” _ cheers Amos Diggory. 

Harry has nothing to say to that, really, so he keeps quiet. Cedric is looking pained, and the twins, who haven’t forgiven Hufflepuff’s win last year, are scowling even more than they were earlier.

“Harry fell off his broom, dad,” Cedric mutters. “I told you, it was an accident.”

Amos laughs loudly and genially, patting him on the back. “Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you? Always a modest one, our Ced, but the best man won—I’m sure Harry would say the same, eh? One falls off his broom and one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to know who’s a better flier!”

Cedric winces again and Harry starts curling back into himself, stepping backwards into Ron. Mr Weasley goes to open his mouth, but someone beats him to it.

“Oh yeah, it’s not like Harry had a bunch of rogue dementors after him or anything!” George snaps. Amos blinks, looking at him as if he’s only just noticed someone’s there.

“Yeah,” Fred leaps in, “he just thought he’d have a quick nap fifty feet in the air!”

“All right, boys,” says Mr Weasley. “Quidditch rivalries aside for the moment, please—it must be nearly time. Do you know if there are any others joining us, Amos?”

Harry looks from Cedric, still looking sheepish, to the twins, who are still glaring daggers at Amos Diggory. Fred lifts his arm and thumps George’s shoulder. George frowns at him, and though he’s still watching the Diggorys, Fred tilts his head in the direction of the rest of them. George looks over and catches Harry’s eye.

Harry looks away quickly, but glances back up to see him smiling, finally, and smiles back.

“Thanks,” he says, but George only shakes his head. Fred scoffs and smacks him again. Ginny giggles.

Ron drops his hand from its rest on Harry’s shoulder and screws up his face. “What the hell are they doing?”

“No idea,” Harry replies, just as mystified as ever.

######  _ \- x - _

Hermione and Ginny come hurrying towards them, huddling in their jackets. Ginny doesn’t have any shoes. Harry and Ron gesture them over quickly, soothing hands over their shoulders and glancing around them while they try their best to explain. Mr Weasley returns as Bill, Charlie and Percy burst out of their tent. They run their hands over each of them as they pass, counting them in, before sprinting off in the direction of the marching wizards.

“What are they doing?” Ron yells to his dad. “Where are they—”

“We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr Weasley yells back. “All of you need to go,  _ now! _ Get to the woods and don’t look back!”

“C’mon,” Fred says, grabbing Ginny and steering them towards the trees. Mr Weasley turns and runs after his sons. Harry, Ron and Hermione are ushered on by George and they leg it after Fred and Gin, dodging stray fires and screaming witches and wizards every other second.

Hermione trips with a yell and George shouts. Ron staggers to catch her before she can fall, and Ginny is trying to rip herself free of Fred’s arms up ahead. 

“Keep going!” Harry tells them. He grabs hold of Hermione and Ron’s hands and runs with them, mere metres from the edge of the woods now.

There’s no light between the trees. The canopy blocks the moonlight and all of the lanterns around the pitch have been extinguished. The only light flickers in the fires consuming the camping grounds and flying from the wands of the masked wizards. So many people are running past them he has to pull Ron and Hermione close to his sides to keep them together. He can’t see Ginny or the twins, but he can hear one of them calling their names.

“WE’RE HERE!” he hollers, and then his left arm wrenches as Ron goes down.

“Gah!” Ron yells.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione gasps. “Oh, this is stupid!” A bright spot of white light appears between them as she lights her wandtip. Ron is sprawled on the ground, but already pushing himself to his feet.

“Tripped over a root,” he says.

“Ron! Harry!” shouts George, several feet away and hidden by trees. “Hermione!”

“With feet like that, I’m not surprised,” snarks a nearby voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!” Harry snaps. The three of them turn sharply to see his blonde arse leaning casually against a tree. His expression is tight, though, and he looks less than comfortable.

“Language,” he says.

“We’re over here!” Harry shouts again to George.

“Hadn’t you better be hurrying along now?” Malfoy taunts. “You wouldn’t want  _ her _ to be spotted.” He nods to Hermione at the same time a loud bang and several flashes of light ricochet through the woods. George sprints towards them, sliding to a stop just in front of Malfoy.

“What’s that supposed to mean!?” Hermione asks, just as George yells, “What the hell’s  _ he _ doing here?”

“They’re after muggles, Granger. If you want to show off your knickers, by all means hang around… They’re headed this way.”

“Shut your snobby little face or I’ll knock your teeth in!” George tells him, panting harshly. “She’s as much a witch as we are wizards!”

“Oooh, the big strong boyfriend back to save you, Potter!” Malfoy sneers. “If you don’t think they can tell the muggleborns from the purebloods you’re having a laugh.”

_ “Just shut up!” _ Ron shouts. George grabs hold of him and Hermione.

“Come  _ on, _ you three!”

“Is your dad down there, then?” Harry asks, standing his ground. Malfoy’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t know, do you? They seem the type, your parents—torturing innocent people for fun.”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ say a word against my parents!” Malfoy shrieks, moving so suddenly towards Harry that Ron and George leap forward to drag him back.

“Come on, we’re  _ leaving!” _

Harry goes with them, but only because he knows that Malfoy’s right; the masks are moving their way, and they’ll be out for Hermione’s blood. Probably his, too. He glances back to watch Malfoy pace, fuming and looking seconds away from giving into biting at his nails.

“Sorry,” Harry says. 

George clicks his tongue. “It’s fine, just move!”

Eventually, they come to the quietest place they’ve found so far.

“I reckon we could wait here,” Ron says. “We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off, won’t we?” George collapses heavily to his knees and falls onto his arse, breathing laboriously.

“Sorry,” he pants. “Too much running.”

“What?” Harry asks as he and Hermione drop down next to him.

“We lost you,” he replies, as if that explains everything. At the same time, Ludo Bagman comes tumbling out of a nearby bush, and Harry allows himself to begin quietly panicking over the loss of his wand.

“Who’s that?” says the stricken Bagman, squinting down at them. “What are you all doing in here, alone?”

They look between each other in alarm.

“Well, there’s sort of a riot going on,” Ron says. George nods, still winded.

Bagman stares blankly. “What?”

“On the campsite?” Ron says. “People in masks, they’ve got the muggles…”

Bagman swears. “Damn them! I’d better…” He turns and disapparates on the spot.

“Not exactly on top of things, is he?” Hermione wonders.

“He’s an idiot,” George spits.

Ron tilts his head to the side. “He was a great beater, though, in his day.” Harry shakes his head, but lets him ramble.

“I hope the others are okay,” Hermione says after a while.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Harry says, placing a hand on her knee. “You know how clever they are.”

“Clever?” scoffs George, still lying in the grass. “I don’t think Fred or I have ever been called that in our lives. Not seriously, at least.” 

“Harry thinks you are,” Hermione tells him smugly. Harry jumps and digs his fingers into her leg. “He was saying it just yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Hermione…” 

“Oh?” George grins. “Tell me how clever I am, little darling Harry.”

Harry rolls his eyes and freezes. Somewhere behind them, someone is rustling through the undergrowth. They approach with uneven steps, loudly enough that the four of them snap to attention and take up a crouch behind the nearest bush. But the footsteps come to a sudden halt.

“Hello?” Harry calls, and George wrenches them down, looking at him as if he’s completely lost it. Well, it wasn’t his smartest idea.

There’s silence for a long moment. Harry slips out of George’s grip and hovers behind the next tree over, peering around it into the darkness. He can see the shape of a tall person, cloaked in a shapeless coat and standing utterly still.

Without warning, the silence is broken by a harsh voice unlike any they’d expect in such a situation. It doesn’t scream or panic, but speaks calmly and loudly, in what sounds like the manner of a spell.

_ “MORSMORDRE!” _ the figure declares, holding out their wand to the sky. A green light flies upwards through the trees and into the cloudy, smoky sky above.

“What the…?” Ron says, standing to get a better look at the thing. The cloudy formation unfurls in a curling eeriness into an enormous skull with a serpent for a tongue, slithering outwards menacingly.

“We need to move!” George shouts suddenly, as the woods around them fill once again with horrible screams. Hermione grabs the back of Harry’s jacket and pulls him along.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, wildly confused. 

“It’s the Dark Mark!” she cries. “You-Know-Who’s sign!”

_ “Voldemort _ has a—”

“Come  _ on, _ Harry!”

They barely make it to the middle of the clearing before a ring of probably twenty wizards appears in front of them. He has enough time to see that each of them has their wand out, and every wand is pointed right at them.

“DUCK!” he yells, and pulls whoever’s nearest to the ground just as two dozen stunners fly blindingly towards them. A ripple of magic sweeps over them as they pass above like wind, bouncing off the trees and dissipating or rebounding into the darkness.

“Stop!” yells the voice of Mr Weasley. “STOP!  _ Those are my children!” _

The barrage stops, and Harry lifts his head properly. All three of his friends are thankfully crouched at his side, both awake and alive. Mr Weasley is running towards them, looking terrified.

“Ron, George, Harry, Hermione,” he says shakily, “are you all right?”

“Out of the way, Arthur!” snaps a cold voice—Barty Crouch. He turns back to Harry and the others, who climb to their feet to meet his rage. 

“Which one of you did it?” he demands. “Which one of you conjured the Dark Mark?”

“That?” Harry asks, gesturing at the skull in disbelief. “We didn’t do that!”

_ “Are you mad?” _ George bellows. “None of us are seventeen!  _ He doesn’t even know what it is!” _

“What did you attack us for?” Ron shouts. “How could we do it?”

“Do not  _ lie!” _ Mr Crouch insists. His wand is aimed shoddily, flicking between Ron and George, and he looks like he very much might be mad. “You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!”

“Barty,” whispers a witch whose red robes have been thrown hastily over a dressing gown. “They’re kids, how could they have—”

“Where did the mark come from, you four?” Mr Weasley says quickly. 

“Over there,” says George, taking charge and pointing to the trees where Harry had seen the caster. “There was a person, they said something—”

“Sounded like moss-maudrey!” Ron adds.

“Stood over there, did they?” says Crouch. “Said an incantation, did they? You two seem to know a lot about casting the mark—”

“Barty!” says another wizard. None of them seem to be taking any notice of him any more, approaching the edge of the clearing with caution, wands aloft.

“I think it was a man,” Harry pipes up. “It sounded like a man. He was tall, and he sounded like he was limping—”

“Blimey!” calls Amos Diggory.

He comes staggering back with Winky the house-elf and Harry’s lost wand. George takes hold of him and Hermione and doesn’t let go, but he does shout at Amos for trying to convict Harry of the damned crime.

######  _ \- x - _

“Moody’s a bit suspicious don’t you think?” says Ron through a mouthful of biscuits in the common room. 

Hermione looks up from her notebook. “He’s odd, cruel and frightening, but I wouldn’t say he’s suspicious. Why?”

“Well, he’s always skulking around isn’t he? Drinking from that weird flask—do we even know what’s in it?”

“Not pumpkin juice, that’s for sure,” laughs Seamus. It was a good joke the first time around.

“Well, we hardly reckon we know what it is,” says Fred, throwing himself over the back of the sofa and startling Ron into choking. “But we do know that he takes one sip every hour.”

“Been watching, have you?” Harry asks.

“A little,” he shrugs. “But he really is just going mad, isn’t he? Old Mad-Eye.”

“It  _ is _ a little suspicious, though, isn’t it?” Ron presses, breathing finally back under control.

“First Death Eaters at the World Cup, then Moody calls in an attack on his home just before he comes here…” Harry says. “And he’s drinking too regularly from that flask. It couldn’t be medicine, could it?”

Fred pushes out his bottom lip. “Maybe.”

“More like anaesthetic if you ask me,” George mutters.

“That’s odd,” says Hermione. She’s staring into space a bit, brows knitting together.

Ron frowns. “What is?”

She looks up quickly. “Oh, no… Just a thought.”

“Go on,” Harry says, but she shakes her head.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry’s name flies out of the Goblet of Fire. His house cheers. Ron does not.

######  _ \- x - _

“You’re being stupid,” Harry snaps, storming after his best friend.

“Yeah,  _ that’s _ what I am,” Ron snarls. “Harry Potter’s stupid friend.”

“That is  _ not _ what I meant and  _ you know it.” _

“Oh yeah? Are you sure about that?”

“Ron!” Hermione says. “Stop it!”

“Oh and you’re always taking his side!” Ron shouts. He whirls around and flings out an arm at Harry. “Why am I even here? You don’t need me—you don’t even want me here!”

“For  _ fuck’s sake, _ Ron!” Harry shouts back.

“No, you don’t get to say anything! You don’t care about me, you’ve always preferred my brothers! There’s always someone else!”

“What?” Harry spits, his whole face contorting with rage and disbelief. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed! You’re always happy to talk to  _ them! _ Even Ginny talks to you now, so you don’t need me around, do you? I’m just in the way!”

“Ron!” Hermione shrieks. Harry’s trembling from head to toe. It doesn’t help that they’ve attracted a huge audience, gathered in the archways and overhangs at the edges of the courtyard, stunned by the fire and the venom and unable to look away.

“I bet you told them, didn’t you!” Ron continues. “I bet you told them how you did it and the lot of you had a right good laugh at our expense! Do you really think I’m that stupid? And why would  _ they _ ever care about  _ you, _ anyway? You’re Harry Potter, you’re just some celebrity and their brother’s friend! You didn’t really think they  _ cared, _ did you? What did you think was going to happen—?”

“I told you!” Harry says, feeling a lot like he’s just been punched in the chest. “I didn’t put my name in!”

Ron lurches a step forward, fists curled like Harry’s. Harry tenses, half terrified beneath his anger that Ron might actually try to fight him, but before either of them can move a flash of black robes and red hair flings itself between them.

“Stop it, both of you!” Ginny shouts. She’s glaring daggers at both of them, readied wand flicking from one to the other.

“Piss off, Ginny!” Ron snaps. “Don’t you start taking his side as well!”

She turns her wand on him instantly. “I’m not taking anyone’s side, you idiots! Stop being so bloody stubborn!”

“Fine!” he bellows, and turns on his heel. Harry, Hermione and Ginny watch as he stalks off into the castle grounds. Harry’s still shaking, and his breaths aren’t coming any easier.

The entire courtyard hangs in a delicate shock of silence for minutes after.

######  _ \- x - _

“Ron, you’re being ridiculous,” says Hermione.

“Go on, Harry, don’t let them get you down!” says Neville.

“C’mon, you lot don’t  _ really _ believe all of this Skeeter drivel?” says Fred.

“You know Ron—gets his head stuck too far up his own git arse sometimes,” says Ginny.

“You can beat Cedric, easy!” says Seamus.

“We’re making loads of flags and banners for you,” says Dean.

“I’ve got sommat to show yer, Harry, didn’t Ron tell you?” says Hagrid. 

“Don’t die tomorrow,” says George. “You’ll do great, I know you will.”

######  _ \- x - _

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” bellows a voice that Harry almost doesn’t recognise. Charlie Weasley throws back the flaps of the tent and storms inside, looking thunderous. Fleur and Cedric jump violently. “How on  _ Merlin’s green earth _ can you allow Harry to take part in this tournament?!”

“Mr Weasley!” yelps Ludo Bagman. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact my blasted brothers didn’t tell me the fourth champion was  _ Harry,” _ Charlie snaps. “You know what’s out there! What the bloody task is! You’d better hang onto your privates if I find out you’ve given him the goddamned horntail—!”

“Charlie!” Harry says. “Charlie, please, it’s fine.”

“No, it is not!” Charlie replies, rounding on him with a stern expression. “Those are  _ nesting mothers _ out there—they’ll kill you for even looking at them wrong! I’m not saying you’re not capable, Harry, but this is stupidly dangerous and you shouldn’t even be here!”

“Mr Weasley,” says the calm voice of Albus Dumbledore. “I am afraid the Goblet’s contract is absolute.”

“How can you allow this?!” Charlie demands. “You  _ or _ McGonagall! This is a gladiator’s suicide!”

“Charlie’s right,” Cedric adds quietly. “This is too much… Even we’re…”

“’S all right, Ced,” Charlie sighs. “You need to worry about yourself right now.”

“Harry must compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore says. “The contract poses its own risk to his life, and I believe he is more than capable of taking on the tasks in front of him.”

“OF COURSE HE IS!” Charlie yells. “HE’S MORE CAPABLE THAN MOST OF US HERE! BUT SHOULD HE HAVE TO BE? NO! DON’T THINK I HAVEN’T HEARD THE STORIES!”

Harry shrinks back against one of the stilts holding up the tent. He’s never heard Charlie shout, and all of his brothers have talked about him as if he’s the most laid back of the lot. It’s more shocking that it’s  _ Harry _ he’s so worked up about now, and enough to shout at  _ Dumbledore _ at that—not that either of them look particularly concerned. They barely know each other, for crying out loud.

“It’s all right,” Harry says again. “I can do this. I have a plan.”

Charlie seems to deflate under the worried (and surprised) gazes of the gathered audience. “I know,” he says. “I know. I just wish you didn’t have to.” And then he does something that surprises everyone: he lurches forward and wraps Harry in an all-consuming hug.

Harry reaches up to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, feeling entirely thrown off his axis and unsure of everything, in that moment. “I think Professor McGonagall almost punched Snape when they were arguing over me,” he whispers. “I’ll be all right.”

Charlie snorts and pats him on the back before he lets him go. “I’ll be just on hand, all right? Percy’s out there somewhere, skulking around, and we have Fred and George on standby too. We’re not gonna let you get got, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry says, and gives him a small smile.

“Charlie,” calls a new voice, one he almost mistakes for Seamus, from the mouth of the tent. “I know you’re worried but we really do need you.”

“Did you ask them?” Charlie asks, wandering back to the flaps where another dragon handler with short, curly brown hair and glasses and a long scar slicing his jaw is leaning through. 

“Yeah, they said there really isn’t anything we can do. I’m sorry.” The handler peers around him and looks over each of the champions until he locks eyes with Harry. “I’m sorry kid. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies weakly. Both of them wave solemnly before disappearing, and Harry swallows as he waves unenthusiastically back.

And then all that’s left to do is wait for his turn. He could really do without everyone else staring at him, though.

######  _ \- x - _

“Madam Pomfrey?” Harry asks while she’s patching him up. “Has Professor Moody been to the hospital wing lately?”

Madam Pomfrey pauses and looks at him oddly. “Whyever would you think that, my dear?”

Harry swallows. “Well, we heard that he thought he was attacked before he got here. He’s been drinking out of that flask he has, and the twins told me he only takes one sip and he does it every hour. I was wondering if it was medicine of some sort. Just… We’d hate to lose another Defence teacher, is all.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Now that I think about it, Mr Potter, you may be right. I have no idea what’s in that flask of his… I’ll have to ask him sometime…”

She leaves him with instructions to sit and heal before he gets his scores. Of course, he’s too antsy to sit still, but before he makes it to the mouth of the tent several people come bursting through, Ron in the lead.

“Harry, that was brilliant!” Hermione squeals. She jumps up and hugs him tightly. There are fingernail marks on her cheeks where she’s been clutching her face. “You were amazing, you really were!”

“We thought you were going to die, but you didn’t!” Ginny exclaims excitedly.

“That really was some fantastic flying,” George adds. Despite himself, Harry can feel his embarrassment creeping up on him again. He grins, briefly, but turns his attention to Ron.

Ron, who’s paler than his bedsheets and looks ready to throw up.

“Harry,” he says faintly, “whoever put your name in that goblet, I—I reckon they’re trying to do you in.”

Harry scowls. “Caught on, have you? Took you long enough.” In his peripheries he sees Fred raise his eyebrows, apparently amused. Ron opens his mouth, and Harry knows he’s going to apologise. All of a sudden, he realises he doesn’t want to hear it.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Forget it.”

“No, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t, but you’re back now.”

A small, nervous grin makes its way to Ron’s face, and Harry drops all of his anger like it’s a physical weight and smiles back.

Hermione bursts into tears.

“What?” Harry asks, taken aback and a little bit bewildered. “What are you crying about?”

“You two are so  _ stupid!” _ she cries, and storms out of the tent. Ginny winks to Harry and chases after her, long hair flicking around the corner.

“…Kiss and make up, then, is it?” says Fred after a moment.

“I’m not kissing  _ him,” _ both Ron and Harry reply simultaneously. They look at each other and burst out laughing.

“Then it looks like our work here is done,” says George. He messes Harry’s hair before wandering away, no doubt to give out the winnings of their betting setup.

“Come on, they’ll be putting up the scores!” Ron says happily, and leads Harry back through the tunnel, chatting all the way. Harry grins, absolutely thrilled, and for the first time in months does not give half a shit about anyone else’s opinions.

######  _ \- x - _

“As soon as Ginny told them what I’d said they cornered me in the common room and bit my head off for it,” Ron says glumly. “They do care. We all do. I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. His words catch a little at the thought of practically all of Ron’s family standing up for  _ him, _ for Harry, when he just as easily could have been guilty. When he was no one to them.

“It’s not, really,” Ron says. Harry reaches out and drops his hand gently on top of Ron’s.

“It is now.”

######  _ \- x - _

“…It’s the custard creams you’ve got to watch—” Fred says. Across the room, Neville chokes and spits out the remnants of a custard cream. “Just my little joke, Neville!”

George leans in to Harry’s ear. “Watch him,” he whispers. Harry feels like he can barely pay attention to anything outside of George’s breath against his neck, but he forces himself to concentrate on Neville. Less than a minute later there’s a yelp and a shrill chirp, and Neville turns into a large, yellow canary. The room is silent for a good two seconds before everyone roars with laughter.

“That’s brilliant!” Harry cheers, turning his head and coming near nose-to-nose with the inventor himself. “You’re genius!”

“Why thank you,” George beams. “I’d say you’re pretty genius yourself.”

“Canary Creams!” Fred shouts to the room. “George and I invented them! Seven sickles each—a bargain!”

“I’m nothing special,” Harry murmurs, forgetting quite why when he’s instantly derailed by a brush of warmth over his back. 

He feels sick.

######  _ \- x - _

Ludo Bagman laughs, and Harry would, quite frankly, rather be anywhere else in the world.

“I’m sure Mr Crouch will be up and about in no time,” Percy assures them. “But, in the meantime—”

A pair of smart dress shoes appears in Harry’s vision, quite effectively disrupting his sterling view of the floor. He looks up at George Weasley, utterly dashing in his dress robes. His expression is light but genuine, hiding all but a glimpse, like sunlight, of his usual humour and mischief. He holds out a hand.

“May I have this dance?” 

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He’s vaguely aware that Percy has trailed off in his ramblings, and that Ron is staring shamelessly, his huffiness over Hermione completely out of mind. Harry is still gaping, but manages to lift a hand to slide into George’s. When George grins and pulls him to his feet he goes easily.

“I don’t know about you, but I find dancing with all these girls gets boring after a while,” he says like it’s a top secret conspiracy. Harry cracks a shaky grin, still staring up at him as he’s led onto the dance floor.

“I’m not one for dancing, really,” he says as they begin to move. “But I can make exceptions.”

George spins him under his arm. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Doesn’t your date mind?” 

“Oh, I didn’t have one.”

“Really?” Harry blinks. “I thought loads of people would’ve been asking.”

George raises a brow and makes a visible effort to contain his laughter. “You make it sound like there are people queueing out the door for me.”

“Well, I don’t know!” Harry flounders. “I thought you were popular!”

George hums.”I would say ‘in my dreams,’ but I’m really quite happy as I am now, actually.”

Short of blurting out something  _ unimaginably _ stupid, like ‘Do you mean  _ right _ now?’, or, ‘Am I hallucinating?’, or, ‘You’re really, really hot,’ Harry has no idea how to respond to that. Fortunately he doesn’t need to, as George lights up as he spots something just to Harry’s right.

“Oh,” he says, all mischief again. “Just look at little Ron’s face!” 

Harry looks eagerly over his shoulder to his best friend, transfixed exactly where they left him as subject to Percy. He looks a bit like a dead fish, possibly in shock. Harry snorts and laughs, ducking his head to hide behind George. “He probably thinks you’re trying to steal me away from him.”

“And what if I am?” 

The smirk on his lips makes Harry’s already-twisted insides lurch in an amazing way. His eyes, a handsome coppery-amber, flicker over Harry’s face as the band slips into a much slower song, and they end up swaying in time with the flood of couples on the floor.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Harry finally admits, though it comes out half whispered. He spins again under George’s arm, returning to a smile soft enough to melt him completely.

“Lucky for me,” he says quietly, and Harry no longer knows if he’ll make it out of here alive. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe the dragon killed him and this is his own personal afterlife.

Ginny and Hermione go twirling past, giggling, and Harry watches George watch them, watches how his smile softens even further. God, this is bad for Harry’s heart. Really, really bad. He wouldn’t pull away for anything.

The Weird Sisters begin to wind down the song—their last of the evening—and Harry doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know whether George will laugh off the dance and send him back to Ron, whether he’ll ask Harry about his obvious-as-all-hell crush, chuckle uncomfortably and drop him at the sidelines—but George leans in closer and whispers, “Shall we make our daring escape?”

Harry’s heart leaps up to choke his throat. He looks around for Parvati and finds her very well attended to by her Beauxbatons partner. She looks up in time to catch his eye and grins, wiggling her fingers at him and giggling.

“Let’s go,” Harry says before he can think any better of it. George takes off at once, locking their fingers together and twisting him expertly through the maze of people. Harry can’t help but feel a new wave of affection for him then, at the ridiculousness of it all and just how  _ nice _ it is. They run into the Entrance Hall and up the steps towards the Gryffindor Tower, bypassing the gardens with their snogging couples completely. Harry lets himself wonder, for a split second, what it might be like to be one of those couples hiding behind rose bushes and in the backs of carriages. He tells himself that he’ll never know, and that he won’t grieve for something he isn’t even allowed to want.

Instead, he listens to the echoes of their laughter as they race down the corridors past singing suits of armour and dodge low-hanging holly branches. They’re almost there, they’re literally in sight of the portrait, when their feet are stuck fast to the stones and they almost fall face-first into the floor.

“Woah!” George yelps, pitched severely forward. “You all right?”

“Fine!” Harry says quickly. He finds his balance again, hand still clinging tightly to George’s, and looks around. Even though voices are drifting up towards them, the corridor is deserted. He looks back to George, who isn’t looking at him or around them but up at the ceiling, slack-jawed. Harry swallows, takes a breath, and tips his head slowly backwards. 

To his terrifying mixture of stomach-dropping horror and heart-in-throat excitement, they’ve been trapped by one of the castle’s rare, infamous, floating sprigs of mistletoe. For as long as Harry can remember there’s been a rumour about them hovering invisibly throughout the castle, lying in wait to trap unsuspecting victims until they capitulate. It seems that tonight they’ve at long last found one. 

He swallows again and looks down at George’s face. At this point there’s nothing else to do but wait for the inevitable. The inevitable awkward rejection, that is.

“Er,” George says. “I didn’t know these were still around.”

“Apparently so,” Harry says faintly.

“You don’t—er—you don’t have to,” he stammers. “I’m pretty sure there was another way out of these…” Two patches of colour are quickly rising to his cheeks. Harry can’t even bear to hope, but he tugs on their tangled fingers all the same.

“I don’t mind,” he says. 

George startles. “You don’t?”

“Well, I—it’s not that I don’t mind, which I don’t, but—”

“Harry,” George says, and Harry shuts up immediately. George bites his lip and leans in hesitantly, hovering in front of Harry’s face for several heartbeats, drawing his eyes over him again in that way that sends him right to the edge. And then he kisses him.

It’s soft. Chaste. Just a press of his lips to Harry’s, lingering maybe only a second. Harry’s glasses get in the way.

It’s better than Harry could have ever imagined.

George straightens up quickly, testing the charm by lifting one foot and then the other and smiling slightly when they come free without argument. He jostles their hands again to tug him along, brilliantly—blessedly—still hanging on.

They climb through the portrait and cross the deserted common room, all the way to the foot of the boys’ dormitory stairs. George stops him there, turning to face him and still smiling in that tormentuously fond manner. He brings Harry’s hands to his mouth and presses his fingers to his lips.

“Goodnight, Trouble,” he says, and, finally, lets Harry’s hand drop.

“Goodnight, George,” Harry replies, viciously fighting down his blushing. He turns and flees upstairs, grinning madly into his hands and almost tripping over the hem of his robes as he goes. He pushes the door of their dorm open and lets it bang against the wall even though the curtains of Dean’s bed are pulled shut. He doubts there's any sleeping going on behind them, anyway.

Harry sits down on his bed and falls back onto the pillow, still grinning like an idiot.

It doesn’t really matter what happens from here on in, Harry thinks—he  _ kissed _ George Weasley.


	5. Fourth Year, II

Nobody wakes early on Boxing Day. Harry uses the time he has to wrangle his thoughts into something manageable and realistic. He needs to go downstairs and pretend nothing happened last night, that his whole fourteen-year-old world didn’t just get tipped on its head because of a dance and one brief kiss. He needs to pretend that it didn’t make him feel so intensely as it did.

“I can’t believe you left me for George!” is the first thing out of Ron’s mouth after he wakes up. Harry huffs petulantly and doesn’t look at him.

“No one else was offering to dance with me.” 

“You didn’t even want to dance!”

“Last night was great, wasn’t it?” says Neville. “I feel like I got dumped, though.” 

“What?” Ron asks, face a very picture of confusion. “Who for?”

“Hermione,” he sighs. “I can’t even blame her.”

“Oh,” Harry murmurs. “Yeah, I saw them.”

“Still!” Ron says, turning back to Harry. “You didn’t have to go off—canoodling with my brother!”

“What? I—! I did  _ not!” _

“You just left me with Perce! Do you know how much I know about bloody flying carpet smuggling now?”

“I’m sure it was very educational!”

“Yeah, well,” Ron says, raising his voice pointedly. “At least you didn’t bring anyone back to shag in the dorm!”

“Sorry!” says Seamus’ voice. It would be a lot more convincing if it didn’t come from behind Dean’s bed curtains.

Harry is happy to leave it at that, not discussing the night before at all and pretending nothing happened, but talk of the ball is nigh-on impossible to escape. Everyone in the common room is uncharacteristically shy and giggly all day; even Angelina, to an extent, when Fred places a hand on her lower back with a sweet, “Hi Angie.”

Ron and Hermione are being civil again. They don’t discuss the ball or anything around it, and if that’s what it takes to keep them all friends, Harry could go a lifetime without ever mentioning it again.

######  _ \- x - _

“Oh, this is no use!” Hermione says irritably, slamming shut the book of  _ Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. _ “Who on Earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” says Fred, appearing around one of the bookshelves. Harry’s heart skips nonsensically at the sight of him. “Be a talking point, wouldn’t it?”

Hermione snorts unflatteringly and breaks up into giggles.

“What are you two doing here?” Ron asks.

“Looking for you,” says George. “McGonagall wants you. She was looking mighty grim, though, and Perce is here too, throwing a fit about something. What have you done now?”

“Nothing!” Ron says. “For once, absolutely nothing!”

“We’re supposed to take you to her office,” Fred tells him, “but now I can’t be bothered. Find Percy, he’ll go with you.”

“I can go by myself,” Ron grumbles, standing so abruptly he dislodges a stack of books. Hermione catches them before they can tumble from the desk and stands too.

“I’ll come,” she says. “Harry will be fine for a moment, won’t you?”

“Fine, ’Mione,” Harry sighs. “I’ll keep looking.”

She nods, takes Ron’s arm, and steers him out between the shelves. They hear when the door to the library opens, because the great vaulted room fills with the echoes of someone shouting.

“No, I  _ cannot _ agree with this!” they’re saying. “Surely Dumbledore isn’t really on board? It’s ridiculous!”

“Is that Percy?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Fred sighs. “Won’t tell us what he’s so upset about, though. Probably something changed without his permission in the Tournament planning.”

“Do be  _ quiet, _ Mr Weasley!” snaps Madam Pince at the entrance. The shouting stops immediately.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” George asks.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Unless you know a way for me to breathe underwater for an hour…”

“…Bubble-head charm?” he suggests. 

Harry frowns. “What’s that?”

“Am I on chaperone duty now? Is that what this is?” Fred asks, sounding resigned. Harry and George ignore him. “I’m on chaperone duty. Brilliant.”

“It creates a bubble around the target’s head,” George says. “We’re doing them in Charms for NEWTs, but I don’t know if there’ll be enough time to teach you…” 

“We can try,” says Fred. “It’s better than nothing, and you’re looking desperate.”

“Please,” Harry whispers. “I’m not supposed to ask for help, but  _ please.” _

Fred looks to his brother and smirks. “Do we get anything in return?” 

“Yeah, sure—whatever you want. I’ll owe you one, just… Please.”

“Hey,” says George, tilting his head to catch Harry’s eye, “you don’t need to beg us. We don’t really want you to drown.”

_ “You _ don’t,” Fred mutters. “It’s not my problem.” Harry looks at him. “Fine,” he admits, “but we’re only doing it for Ron.”

Madam Pince kicks them out at eight o’clock. Harry has something of a grasp on the bubble-head charm, but he isn’t very confident.

Ron doesn’t return to the dormitory that night.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry can feel his legs seizing with the effort to keep swimming, straining through water with as little purchase as if he were trying to swim through air. His neck is burning again, burning like it did before he’d grown gills, and taking in air is getting harder and harder.

_ I’m going to die, _ he thinks, horrified.  _ I’m going to die and Ron’s going to die with me. _

The thought of Ron seems to kickstart his brain. He lets go of Ron’s robes and slides his wand from its strap and casts. A bubble wraps around his nose and mouth and down his neck, much smaller than Cedric’s and much weaker than Fleur’s. But it’s there, it’ll do the job. 

Harry snatches up Ron’s hood again and kicks desperately. His calves scream with the effort, feeling like they’re tearing apart on the inside even as he heaves for breath. 

Finally,  _ finally _ he breaks the surface.

A great roaring fills his ears, painful and disorienting after the muffled nothingness of the lake. Ron and the little girl come up next to him, and all around them fanged green heads are following them out of the water. They’re smiling, so Harry takes it as a good sign. The stands are writhing with celebration.

Ron coughs and expels a great load of water. “Harry!” he says. “Well done!”

Although treading water, Harry lunges. He wraps his arms tightly around Ron’s neck, and Ron laughs.

“Wet this, isn’t it?” He looks around. “Wait, what’d you bring her for?”

“Fleur didn’t come,” Harry tells him. “I couldn’t leave her.”

“Harry, you prat!” Ron says. “You didn’t take that seriously, did you? Dumbledore would never have let us drown!”

“I don’t care,” Harry mumbles against his shoulder, and then kicks off towards the stands. He and Ron support the girl between them, who is looking very confused and a little bit worried.

“Gabrielle!” Fleur shrieks from the stands jetty. Madam Pomfrey looks to be fussing over Hermione, Krum, Cedric and Cho, but Fleur has wrenched herself away from the crowds and is knelt desperately reaching out to the water. “Gabrielle! Is she hurt?”

“She’s okay!” Harry yells. He and Ron help hoist her out of the water first, sopping wet and straight into her sister’s arms. Fleur clutches her tightly and tries to share her towel with her, but Madam Pomfrey bustles swiftly over to take care of them. Three people appear at the jetty side in an instant, grabbing hold of Ron and Harry’s arms and heaving them upwards.

“What a hero!” shouts Fred, patting Harry strongly on the back. Percy surprises all of them, then, by tugging Ron towards him and hugging him even tighter than Harry had.

“Perce?” Ron says. “I’m okay? I’m fine?”

“They put you under a lake!” Percy reminds him, pulling back in outrage. “What kind of—”

“They’re all right, Perce,” says George, though he looks just as relieved. “Dumbledore wouldn’t let them die.”

“You saved us,” Harry blurts. “The gillyweed wore off, but the bubble-head charm, it worked.”

Fred laughs brilliantly. “I told you you could do it! We must be heroes too!”

“Oh,  _ my heroes,” _ Ron says sarcastically, and lets Madam Pomfrey drag him off.

“Thank you,” Harry tells them. “I really owe you.”

“I need to go back to the panel,” Percy says. “I wasn’t supposed to do this… I hope they’ll still let me judge.”

“Perfect Percy, breaking the rules?” Fred gasps.

Harry grins. “Whatever shall we do?” 

“This!” Fred shouts, and all three Weasleys wrap him up in another hug.

“Uh, guys?” Harry says, tapping them quickly on the shoulders. “This is embarrassing.”

“Be embarrassed,” George says. “You’ll live.”

“I’m also wet.”

“Ooh! Keep it in your pants, Potter!”

“Oi! Shut  _ up!” _

######  _ \- x - _

“Do you know what this is, Potter?” Snape says, holding out a small phial of a crystal clear liquid.

“I don’t know,” Harry says irritably. He remembers what Fred had said last June. “Veritaserum? Are you going to force the words out of my mouth just so you can embarrass yourself?”

Snape frowns at him dangerously. “Lucky guess,” he begins, but Harry is struck by a sudden thought.

“Did you say boomslang skin? Someone’s stealing boomslang skin and lacewing flies?”

“Are you  _ listening _ to me, Potter?” Snape looks ready to blow a valve, but Harry doesn’t care, those are used for Polyjuice potion—

_ “Potter!” _

Harry looks up. “Sorry, sir?”

######  _ \- x - _

Malfoy spots Harry from across the hall, as always.

“And here I thought Saint Potter preferred men!” he shouts.

Harry whirls on him. “I’d take Ron any day over the back-stabbing gossips in this school! You leave Hermione alone!”

“No offence mate,” Ron says, “but I really wouldn’t want to kiss you.”

“I’m fairly sure it isn’t you Harry wants to kiss,” Ginny smirks at them. She leans over and rips the latest in a stack of letters out of Hermione’s hands. “Stop opening them like that! Who knows what people have put in them!”

“What?” Hermione says distractedly. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving, and her hair is in quite the disarray. “Oh.”

Ginny sighs and gets up, taking the stack of letters straight up to the head table with absolutely no hesitation. Both Ron and Harry gape after her, and it’s not just them. Half the hall is watching her. Harry thinks, half-aware, that this should probably not be such a big deal, but for some reason it is. Nobody goes up to the head table.

Ginny leaves the letters there after speaking briefly with Professor McGonagall. She strides back to the table with a small smile, sitting down and sliding more toast onto Hermione’s plate.

“What?” she asks the table of gawking Gryffindors. “You lot weren’t going to do anything about it.”

Hermione stares down at her toast. “I don’t know what to do,” she says, and Harry’s heart  _ hurts. _

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Ginny says before the rest of them can react. She slides her arm around Hermione and pulls her to her side. “We’re going to show them that you’re more than a few stupid boys.”

######  _ \- x - _

“Professor!” Harry says when they’re helping Krum to his feet. Dumbledore turns to him expectantly. “Professor Snape says someone’s been stealing ingredients for Polyjuice potion. He… He thinks it’s me, but I thought I should say something.”

“I’m positive you haven’t been fooling around with Polyjuice potion this year, Harry,” Dumbledore smiles. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Harry nods. He thinks it’s probably unwise to mention any of his thoughts on Moody, especially when they have almost no evidence whatsoever.

######  _ \- x - _

“What are you doing here?” say Ron and Fred at the same time.

“Sending a letter,” say Harry and George.

“What, at this time?” say Hermione and Fred.

Again, even in such circumstances, Harry blushes. “Sending a letter to Sirius.”

Fred, holding their envelope in his hand, shifts his fingers to hide the address. He grins and bows lowly, hand held out towards the door. “Well, don’t let us hold you up.”

“Who are you blackmailing?” Ron asks immediately, and Fred’s eyes flash.

George half glances towards him before smiling at Ron. “Don’t be stupid, I was only joking.”

Ron gives him a look. “Didn’t sound like it.”

“Is this something to do with Ludo Bagman?” Harry asks before he can stop himself. Fred stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve been chasing him around for months.”

George looks to Fred, who looks back warningly. 

“As I’ve told you before, Ron,” he says, ignoring Harry, “keep your nose out of our business if you like it the shape it is.”

“What makes you think it’s him?” George asks.

Harry takes a breath. “You haven’t left him alone since the World Cup. Ever since you placed that bet…”

Hermione gasps. “Leprechaun gold!”

“Sorry, what?” Ron asks, turning to her incredulously.

“I bet he gave you leprechaun gold, didn’t he!” she says. “What an utter cheat!”

George shifts uncomfortably. “I, well…”

“…Sometimes I think you’re too clever for your own good, Granger,” Fred sighs. “It’s nothing, all right? We’re just chasing him up on it. No big deal.”

“Have to catch you later,” George says quickly. He takes the envelope and attaches it to the leg of a school barn owl. “See you at breakfast.” They run down the steps to the owlery, heels clicking rhythmically on the flagstones and echoing through the tower. Hermione stares after the owl currently swooping across the valley.

“I do feel sorry for them, sometimes,” she sighs.

“Yeah,” Harry says. There’s a lot he feels sorry for, most days.

######  _ \- x - _

Ginny throws the Daily Prophet across the room. It hits a poor Hufflepuff in the back, but she doesn’t care.

_ “DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS?!” _ she yells. “Hasn’t she had  _ enough?” _

“Gone off me a bit, hasn’t she,” Harry agrees mildly.

“Please don’t throw things, Miss Weasley,” Professor McGonagall calls to her, but she doesn’t seem to be too happy herself. Fuming, Ginny sits down heavily.

“If I ever see that woman again, Harry, I swear, you’re going to have to hold me back.”

Harry snorts. “I don’t think I’d bother.”

“Please do,” Neville says. “None of us want her to end up in Azkaban.”

######  _ \- x - _

McGonagall tells him that the champions’ families have been invited to watch the task and walks away as if she hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary. Harry stares after her, both concerned and perplexed.

“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?” he asks Ron.

“Dunno,” Ron says, ever so helpfully. “Harry, I’d better hurry up, History of Magic’s our next exam. Good luck, I’ll see you later!”

Harry finishes his breakfast as everyone else starts to slink out of the Great Hall. Cedric and Fleur disappear into the antechamber that leads to the mysterious side room, and Krum slouches in after them. Harry sits and waits, largely unwilling to go inside. 

Cedric reappears a few minutes later. “Harry, are you coming? They’re waiting for you!”

Harry frowns and stands from the table. The Dursleys couldn’t… They couldn’t possibly be here. Could they? He really doesn’t want them to be, and least of all in front of the families of everyone else.

Anxiously, he slips into the room.

Cedric’s parents are just inside the door. Krum stands in a corner, talking in rapid Bulgarian with his elated-looking parents. Little Gabrielle, clinging to the hand of her mother, smiles and waves to Harry. Harry waves back, and then he sees who Cedric had been calling him for.

“Mrs Weasley!” he says. “Bill!”

“Surprise!” Mrs Weasley calls from where they are by the fireplace. Both she and her son are absolutely beaming, and Harry feels the huge weight in his chest buoy considerably. Mrs Weasley hurries over to kiss him on the cheek. “We thought we’d come to watch, Harry—wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Hiya Harry,” says Bill, shaking his hand again. Harry does well not to flush this time. “How’re you holding up? Charlie wanted to come, but he couldn’t get time off. He said you were incredible against the horntail, though.”

“All right, thanks,” Harry grins. “I saw him when he was over here, and I definitely have even more respect for him now I’ve seen those dragons.”

Bill laughs. Harry notices Fleur watching them interestedly over her mother’s shoulder. She obviously has no objections to the long hair and fang Mrs Weasley seems to have a vendetta against—Harry’s with Fleur, on that one.

“This is really kind of you,” Harry tells them. “I thought for a moment—when McGonagall said—the Dursleys—”

“Hmm,” Mrs Weasley hums, eyes glinting with unspoken feeling.

“It’s great being back,” Bill says, smiling around at all the trinkets on the shelves and the walls. “Five years… Is that picture of the mad knight still around? Sir Cadogan?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says. “He guarded the tower for a bit last year.”

“Oh? What happened to the Fat Lady?”

“She was here in my time,” says Mrs Weasley. “She gave me such a telling-off one night when I got back at four in the morning—”

“Four in the morning?” Bill says disbelievingly, eyeing his mother with amazement. “What were you doing out at four in the morning?”

She smiles. “Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll. He got caught by Apollyon Pringle, the caretaker—he still has the marks.”

Bill grimaces, sharing his look of slight regret with Harry. “So—er, would you like to show us around?”

######  _ \- x - _

Cedric takes a deep breath. “You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve saved my neck in here.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work, Cedric,” Harry says harshly. His leg is slowly numbing, though every time he moves it feels like every single one of his nerves is on fire. “Look at me, I’m barely on my feet.”

“You’re fourteen and braver than anyone I’ve ever met,” Cedric rebuffs.

“The person who gets to the cup first gets the points!” Harry snaps. “We’re square—I helped you, you helped me. Now take the cup and let’s get out of here.”

“No,” says Cedric, stepping over the legs of the stunned acromantula. Bloody hell, and the bastard is serious. “Go on, take it.”

Harry sits for a moment, breathing through the pain. He thinks about taking the cup, showing everyone that he isn’t a joke, that he’s worth every bit of what the others are, and the joy it would bring to his house and family. But then he comes back to himself, staring at Cedric’s stubborn, shadowed face.

“Together,” Harry says.

“What?”

“We’ll take it together, come on. It’s a Hogwarts victory. We’ll tie.”

Cedric stares. “Are you… sure?”

“Yeah, ’course. I want to get my leg fixed sometime tonight.”

Cedric cracks a grin and leans down to help him up. He grabs Harry’s arm below the shoulder and limps him over to the cup, where their hands hover evenly over it.

“One, two—three!” Harry says, and they both grab hold.

It’s one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry can see how this is going to turn out. His scar burns like never before, and he knows. The knowledge drops into his brain like grace bestowed by his aunt and uncle’s God. He realises what the figure is about to do, what his orders will be, and he can’t let it happen.

“Kill the spare,” he hears through his struggling breaths, just as he holds his wand to his side and just manages to mumble,  _ “Stupefy!” _

The pain in his scar crescendos. He screams, and it comes slowly down, leaving him winded and twitching on the ground.

“Cedric!” He tries to yell, but his voice won’t let him.  _ “Cedric!” _

Cedric’s body is sprawled on the damp grass next to him. His eyes are open and glassy, but when Harry scrabbles around him, listening, feeling for a pulse… 

He’s alive. 

_ Alive. _ The stunner got to him first. Voldemort missed.

“Oh, thank god,” he whispers. There’s shuffling behind him. “Thank fuck, Cedric—Cedric, you need to play dead. You need to play dead, you hear me? He’ll kill you—” Harry raises his voice “Cedric! Cedric, no!” 

With an unpleasant lurch, Harry is being pulled harshly to his feet. He still reaches for Cedric’s body. 

They believe him. They’ve fallen for it.

They believe him until the ghosts pull themselves from Voldemort’s wand.

_ “Where’s the boy?” _ Voldemort howls. Harry is grateful in that moment—ever so grateful—that his Death Eaters are too scared out of their minds to have any brains left between them. None of them know what he’s screaming about until Harry lets go, lets go and runs, and Cedric shouts for him.

“Harry!” he screams, “Harry over here!” 

He’s stood next to the glowing Triwizard Cup, wand out and ready to fight. Harry dives for him, grabs his hand, and touches the handle.

The graveyard spins away from under their feet, and they slam heavily back into the quidditch pitch.

The band roars to life instantly, and before Harry can even get his bearings, he crumples to the ground and retches. Cedric staggers and falls next to him, and the cup rolls away.

“Don’t touch that!” he yells. “It’s a portkey!”

“It’s Moody,” Harry whimpers. “It—It’s him, he’s—Polyjuice.”

“What?” shrieks Madam Pomfrey, who’s rushed over to meet them first. Around them, people gasp.

“Voldemort is back,” croaks Cedric into the lull, and several dozen people freeze, including Dumbledore. “He’s back.”

_ “Voldemort’s back.” _ Harry repeats, loudly, and the screams begin in earnest.

Moody steps up towards them, but Madam Pomfrey pulls her wand on him. 

“Who are you!” she shouts. “Who are you really?”

“What?” he growls. “What are you talking about, woman! Out of my way!” But Moody soon finds himself unable to move for the two new wands pressed to his throat.

“Maybe Potter was right,” Snape sneers. “Maybe he wasn’t raiding my cupboards.”

“I think you’ll be coming with us,” hisses Professor McGonagall.  _ “Incarcerous!” _

Thick ropes fly from her wand and wrap around Moody from head to toe, starting at his throat. He growls and struggles, but it’s no use; he’s no match for the other professors.

“I shall need Mr Potter and Mr Diggory in my office,” says Dumbledore. “Severus, bring us your strongest truth potion and search our imposter’s rooms; make sure you find where he’s keeping Alastor Moody. Minerva, if you go down to Hagrid’s hut you will find a large black dog sitting with the pumpkins; please bring him to my office. Poppy, I merely ask that you bring our imposter with us.” If anyone finds these instructions odd, they don’t say a thing about it, dispersing as Harry, Cedric, Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey begin the walk up to the castle.

Somehow, like magic, Dumbledore manages to shake off the buzzing Cornelius Fudge. He must be doing crowd control, Harry thinks, though he has neither the attention nor care to spare. He stares blankly at the grass as Cedric helps him hobble up the lawns. He can barely feel his leg below the knee now, anyway, and Voldemort is back.

######  _ \- x - _

Barty Crouch Jr confesses everything, right to Harry and Cedric’s faces.

“He should be dead,” he says, pointing a weak and shaky finger to Cedric. Harry automatically tries to stand but tips forward, and Cedric yanks him back into his seat. Padfoot leaps gently up onto his lap. Harry pushes his fingers into his godfather’s fur and clings.

After a few deep breaths and some encouragement from Fawkes, Harry tells them everything. Cedric only speaks when Harry falters, when the words stick in his throat; shards of broken glass, threatening to tear it to shreds. He tells the professors what happened when Harry’s and Voldemort’s wands connected.

“I saw an old man,” Harry interrupts. “Bertha Jorkins—I saw her die, it was a dream I, I—” He swallows harshly. “I didn’t remember any of it until then. And then… Then I saw my parents.” Padfoot tenses and squirms in his lap, but Harry clings on. No, not here.

Cedric continues. His own parents stand behind him in mute horror. He makes Harry sound heroic.

“I should be dead,” Cedric finishes, jerking his head towards Crouch Jr. “He’s right, but Harry saved my life.”

Harry has nothing left to say. He stares vacantly at Dumbledore’s desk. Dumbledore is right, he feels so much better just for telling them, but it didn’t make it any easier to come to terms with the fact that it’s  _ all his fault. _

Fawkes flutters down from the arm of Harry’s chair. Large, pearly tears roll down his beak and splash over the jagged wound on Harry’s leg. Instantly a warm rush of life flows through him, closing the cuts and healing the bruises, and finally he can support his own weight again.

“Thanks, Fawkes,” he murmurs. “Not as bad as a basilisk, this time.”

“Basilisk?” Cedric yelps. Oh, so  _ that _ story didn’t get out, then.

“Chamber of Secrets,” Harry says. “Voldemort possessed someone. I got caught by one of its fangs.”

“Merlin on a broom.”

Dumbledore clears his throat. “May I ask, Harry, how you knew your Professor was not who he said he was?”

“I didn’t,” Harry replies tiredly. “Some clues just didn’t add up. Hermione didn’t like him and he was horrible to Neville on our first day. Fred and George told me that he drinks one sip from his flask every hour. Professor Snape accused me of stealing ingredients for Polyjuice potion. ‘Alastor Moody’ was always in his office, on the map.” Sirius licks the side of Harry’s face, and he smiles. His lips crack and unstick as they move.

Dumbledore nods. “That is very well done, Harry. You have prevented much more harm coming to both yourselves and Hogwarts, tonight, and have shown incredible courage.”

“So’s Cedric,” he murmurs. Dumbledore’s eyes sparkle in the moonlight.

“Of course. I think, however, that that is enough for one night. You may make your ways down to the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey.”

######  _ \- x - _

Padfoot, Dumbledore and the Diggorys accompany Harry, Cedric and Madam Pomfrey down to the infirmary. When they get there, a whole gaggle of redheads are pacing and arguing in whispers outside the door, and all of them spin to face them at the merest sound of a footstep. Cho Chang stands nearby, alone. 

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are closest, and look like they’ve been worrying themselves half to death. Fred, George and Bill are sat against the wall with their heads hung between their knees. Mrs Weasley is fretting and fretting, and comes running towards them immediately. All of her children, Hermione and Cho leap unsteadily to their feet and and follow.

“Harry!” cries Mrs Weasley, stopping only when Dumbledore holds out a placating hand. “Oh, Harry!”

“Molly,” he says, “Harry and Cedric have been through a terrible ordeal tonight. They have just relived it for me, and I ask that they not be questioned about it again. You may stay with him, but he needs to sleep.”

“Can I?” Harry asks Dumbledore, ready to step forward. Dumbledore smiles. Nods.

Harry runs the rest of the way to Mrs Weasley, and the spell holding everyone in place breaks. Cho sobs and runs straight into Cedric’s arms. Mrs Weasley hugs Harry to her chest, cradling him like he’s seen her do with Ginny. Madam Pomfrey tuts and tries to usher everyone into the infirmary. The most she really achieves is getting Mrs Weasley to let go of Harry, because as soon as she does, Ron and Hermione leap in to take her place. It’s one very long overdue group hug. 

Madam Pomfrey does, finally, get Harry into a bed across from Cedric’s. The real Mad-Eye Moody is in a bed farther down, legless and eyeless.

“Is he okay?” he asks.

“He’ll be fine,” Promfrey says, pushing a bottle of purple liquid into his hands. “Here, drink this.”

Harry pauses before he does, smiling as he watches Fred, George and Ginny poke each other a few feet away. After a moment they all kneel down in front of Padfoot and extend a hand. Bill looks on in quiet, resigned amusement.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Padfoot,” says George. “George Weasley, at your acquaintance.” Sirius seems to grin, tongue lolling, as he places a large paw in George’s hand. 

“An honour,” Fred echoes, taking his turn to shake paws. “Fred Weasley.”

“I’m Ginny,” says Ginny, and holds out her hand for a high-five. Sirius acquiesces easily, and she laughs. Harry flicks his gaze to Cedric, who’s looking quite bemused by the act. He holds out his bottle in a silent toast nevertheless. Harry raises his own bottle to him before they both take a few tentative sips. He puts his glasses safely on the bedside table, and the last thing Harry knows is that Padfoot has jumped up onto his bed and curled up at his feet.

######  _ \- x - _

“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr Fudge,” Harry says quietly. By the startled looks all around the room, no one had realised he’d woken up.

“He’s fourteen and been illegally thrown into a tournament he’s just  _ helped win for Hogwarts,” _ says Cedric, sitting up in the next bed. Dumbledore smiles and Fudge splutters, trying to attack Harry at what he probably thinks are weak spots—Parselmouth, reputation, his scar. Harry wonders if he’s aware of the nine or so piercing glares being directed his way. The Weasleys all look murderous.

“We watched Voldemort come back!” Harry exclaims, trying to climb out of bed only to be stopped by Padfoot and Mrs Weasley. “We can give you the names of Death Eaters! Lucius Malfoy—” Snape makes an aborted movement, but Harry ploughs on over Fudge’s dismissals. “Macnair! Avery! Nott! Crabbe! Goyle!”

“They were all there,” Cedric confirms. “Are you aware that I was narrowly missed by a killing curse from Peter Pettigrew himself, Minister, or has nobody told you yet?”

“Pettigrew is dead!” Fudge screams, spittle flying through the air. “Sirius Black killed him!”

“It was Harry that got me out of the way of that, sir, and I watched the entire ritual unfold,” Cedric continues, voice firm, loud, and level. “Voldemort was reborn, called his Death Eaters, and duelled Harry until we escaped. He’s out there.”

A moment of shocked silence reverberates through the room. It feels like a revelation with a severity beyond what any of them can comprehend. Of course, Fudge is having none of it.

“It seems to me that you all are determined to start a panic that will undermine all we have worked for these past thirteen years!” 

Harry doesn’t want to listen anymore. He sighs, unable to block out such a racket regardless, and flicks his eyes to the people who sit themselves on the edge of the bed. Hermione is half on top of his pillow and is holding his hand, shaking with rage. George sits by his feet next to Sirius, absently stroking down the inside of Harry’s blanketed ankle. Ginny has folded her legs up underneath her beside them, pretty much sitting on his feet where Sirius isn’t. They stay there even after Fudge leaves what feels like hours later.

“I’ll go to Dad,” Bill offers, getting smoothly to his feet. “I’ll go now.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore says. “Tell him what has happened, and that I will be with him shortly. He needs to be discreet—if Fudge thinks we’re interfering at the Ministry…”

“Leave it to me,” Bill says. He kisses his mother on the cheek, Ginny on the top of her head, claps Harry on the shoulder and whirls into his cloak as he strides from the room. Harry stares after him slack-jawed, and is gratified to see Hermione and Cedric doing the same.

Professor McGonagall sweeps out shortly after to chase up Hagrid and Madame Maxime. Madam Pomfrey follows on with her mission to comfort Winky, and Dumbledore makes sure the doors are closed before he makes his next request.

“It is time for two of our number to recognise each other for who they truly are,” he says. “Sirius, if you would like to resume your normal form.”

Padfoot looks up, disentangles himself from Ginny’s affections and leaps off the bed. He lands on the floor in front of them Sirius Black.

The Diggorys shriek with fright and Mrs Weasley screams. 

“Sirius Black!” she gasps, leaping from Harry’s bed.

“It’s fine, Mum!” yell the four other Weasleys. She stares then, at her children, taken aback.

Snape snarls. His face is a picture of fury and horror.  _ “Him!” _

“Sirius is here at my invitation,” Dumbledore says, “as are you, Severus. I trust you both; it is time to lay aside past differences and conflicts and trust each other.”

After a few stern words, he even persuades them to shake hands.

“Didn’t you hear what Cedric said about Peter Pettigrew?” Ron asks his mum. “Pettigrew was the traitor—he faked his own death and blew up the street. Sirius was innocent.” Mrs Weasley looks horribly torn, but doesn’t say anything.

“Thank you, Ron,” Sirius says, grinning down at him. “Now, Harry…”

“Sirius,” Harry says, reaching out his arms and not giving a toss how much it makes him look like a needy child. He’s needy, and he’s a child. It’s allowed. (He’s still embarrassed.)

Sirius hastens to his side, taking Molly’s vacated spot and pulling Harry into a warm hug that more than makes up for the ones he’s missed this past year. But Dumbledore allows them only so much.

“You’ll see me very soon, Harry,” Sirius assures him. “I’ll be with Remus. We’ll be fine, I promise, but I must do what I can, you understand?”

Harry bites his lip and nods. “Of course.”

Sirius hugs him again, gently shakes Ron and Hermione’s hands, nods to the rest of them and returns to his dog self, running the length of the room and opening the door with his paw.

Snape leaves next, and then everyone seems to be of the very good opinion that Harry and Cedric need to go back to sleep. Before he drifts, Harry feels someone, someone with calloused, gentle fingers, take the hand not occupied by Hermione. 

He smiles, and lets himself hope.

######  _ \- x - _

“It had ter happen,” Hagrid tells them. It doesn’t make Harry feel much better about it.

######  _ \- x - _

Malfoy sneers at them with tangible enjoyment. 

“Get out.” Harry says. His hand slides into his robes for his wand.

“You’ve picked the losing side, Potter!” he continues, guileless. “I warned you, that day in first year, when we met here. I told you not to hang around with the wrong sort, didn’t I? They’ll be the first to go—half-bloods and muggleborns and the like.”

A series of spells are cast simultaneously, from all directions. Harry is briefly blinded by the light show, but when he looks down he sees Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle lying unconscious on the floor. Both Ron and Hermione are on their feet, wands out and breathing harshly, and all of them have used a different hex. But they weren’t the only ones.

“Thought we’d see what those three were up to,” says Fred, as casually as if discussing the weather. He steps on Goyle as he enters the compartment, stowing his wand away with the air of a job well done. George follows him in, making sure to kick Malfoy in the face.

“Interesting effect,” he muses, peering down at Crabbe. “Who used the furnunculus curse?”

“Me,” Harry says.

“Odd,” George continues lightly, “I used jelly-legs. Looks like those two aren’t meant to be mixed; he seems to have sprouted some tentacles.” His lips twitch in what Harry considers to be rather a devastating smirk as he meets his eyes. Like it’s a private joke, just for them. “Let’s shove ’em somewhere else, shall we? They don’t do much for the décor.”

The five of them lift Malfoy and his cronies out into the corridor, where they drop them and wipe off their hands thoroughly.

“Exploding snap, anyone?” Fred asks, retrieving a pack of cards from his robes.

“Thought you’d never ask,” says Ginny from the doorway, shadowed by Neville.

It’s halfway through the fifth game when Harry has a thought. It’s quite a good thought, for him, even if he does say so himself.

“Did you ever get what Bagman owed you?” he asks.

“Oh,” says George. “That.”

“Not so as you’d notice,” Fred grumbles. He throws down a card, and the whole deck explodes in his face.

“He’s done a runner,” George says in his place, rolling his eyes when Fred coughs dramatically through the minimal smoke. “He lost everything on gambling, hasn’t got nothing anymore, not two galleons to rub together. D’you wanna know how he tried to get out of that with the goblins?”

“How?” Harry asks.

“He made a bet on  _ you, _ Harry, that you’d win the tournament.”

Harry slaps his palm to his forehead. “So  _ that’s _ why he kept trying to help me win! Well, I did, didn’t I? So he can pay you your gold!”

“Well that’s the thing, isn’t it,” says Fred. “You tied with Diggory—it was a Hogwarts win, not a definitive Harry win, and the goblins won’t take it. He’s gone, quite possibly never to come back.”

“Crikey,” Ron breathes. “What a moron.”

Ginny laughs. “If you lot can outsmart him, then he’d have to be.”

Fred flaps his hand towards her. “Shut up, you.”

The rest of the journey passes in laughter. Harry wins none of the games, which he is more than happy to allow. Once or twice he even catches the way Ginny watches Hermione when she’s not looking. Ginny sees him and mock scowls, but he only grins wider so she sticks her tongue out instead. 

Sooner than Harry would ever want, the train is pulling into King's Cross Station. Neville and Ginny hurry back to change hastily out of their robes while the rest of them struggle getting their trunks and pet carriers past the Slytherins still conked out in the corridor. Ron and Hermione leave, but Harry hangs back in the compartment.

“Hey,” he says, “Fred, George, come here a minute.”

The twins stop and turn, raising their eyebrows curiously. Harry opens his trunk and digs out the large bag of galleons—the prize money he’d split with Cedric.

“It’s not the full thousand, we went halves, but I want you to take it.” He chucks the bag over to them, glad that Fred has the mind to catch it before it knocks him over.

“What?” he says, staring down at the bag in open shock.

“Take it, please. I don’t want it.”

“You’re mental,” George says firmly, and tries to give it back. Harry slams the lid on his trunk and crosses his arms.

“I’m not. You take it, and you get back to your inventing, okay? I want to see you in that joke shop of yours by the time we get our NEWTs.”

“He  _ is _ mental,” Fred breathes.

“Listen,” Harry huffs. “Either you take it, or it goes, because I don’t want it. It’s just going to remind me of bad things, and then where will we be? We all need a good laugh, and I have a feeling it’s only going to be a growing need in the near future.”

“Harry,” George says weakly, “this is half a grand in galleons.”

“Yeah,” he grins, conveniently forgetting to mention the extra few dozen he’d added from his own stash. “Think of how many Canary Creams that could make.” 

Fred shakes his head and steps out of the compartment to lean against the wall. George continues standing there, staring. 

“Just… Don’t tell your mum, all right? Though I’m not sure she’ll be on your backs about the Ministry anymore…”

George steps forward and folds him into a hug in one motion. He squeezes Harry to his chest, and Harry allows himself the one small selfishness of slipping his arms around George’s waist to hug him back. For a second or two they just stand there. He can hear George’s breathing, unsteady but comforting.

“We thought we were going to lose you,” he murmurs out of left field. “We didn’t know—there was all sorts in that tournament—”

“Hey, I’m here,” Harry whispers. “I’m fine. We all are.”

George’s cheek lands on the top of Harry’s head as he chuckles. “You're amazing, you know?” he mumbles into his hair. Harry smiles.

“Don't say it too loudly, I might actually believe you.”

George laughs properly, releasing Harry to cover his mouth. “You’re really something else!”

Harry pokes him in the shoulder. “Says you, Mr Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”

He grins. “Did Ron tell you about that?”

“He and Ginny,” Harry says. “Come on, you gotta make something we can get them with over the summer, okay? They’ll never eat another thing without checking it for hexes, I bet.”

George nods, and gestures for Harry to lead the way out. “Let’s wipe those grins off their faces, yeah?”

The carriage is conspicuously absent of one Fred Weasley, whom they find standing on the platform, waiting for them. He winks as Harry jumps down and takes Hedwig’s cage from him.

“What took you so long?”

Harry smiles innocently. “Just business.”

Behind the barrier, Uncle Vernon and Mrs Weasley are waiting for them, about twenty feet apart of course, accompanied by Bill, Percy and Oliver Wood. Mrs Weasley hurries over and hugs them each, making sure to reassure Harry of his welcome and their plan to smuggle him over at some point during the summer. 

“Harry!” cries Wood, rushing over to hug him. Harry startles, having never been hugged by so many people in his life, least of all Wood. 

“Harry,” he whispers, stepping back and holding him by the shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re okay, all right? But I also need you to know that shit’s about to hit the fan. Some people are gonna have to do things they don’t want to… And I need to tell you that it’ll probably be Percy. He didn’t want me telling anyone, okay, but you need to give him a break even if you’ll want to hex him.”

“Why?” Harry asks immediately. “What’s he planning?”

Wood licks his lower lip, glancing around them nervously. “Undercover. But you don’t know it, and I didn’t tell you. Aye?”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Harry says.

“Good man,” Oliver says, clapping him on the shoulder before going off to chat with the twins.

“See you later then, Harry,” Hermione says, bobbing up beside him and doing something she’s never done before: she kisses him on the cheek. He grins and she giggles, and then Ginny does the same, likely just to be a brat.

“Bye, Harry!” call Percy, Oliver and Bill.

“Harry,” George says, catching his hand just as he turns to go. He looks him in the eye and smiles. “Thank you.” Fred nods fervently beside him.

“See you in a bit,” Harry says. 

He winks, reluctantly lets go of George’s hand, and walks over to face Uncle Vernon. After all, half a summer with the Durselys is what, exactly, compared to Voldemort? 

As Hagrid had said—what would come would come. He would just have to meet it when it did.


	6. Fifth Year, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now _this_ is where the fun begins >:)

#####  **\- 15 -**

It’s the hottest day of the year according to the weatherman on the news. Harry can very well believe him, what with the dried and decaying grass crunching sickly golden under his trainers. The chains holding the swing shriek and squeal as he rocks it backwards and forwards. They’re hot to the touch. The sky remains clear while the sun sets. The heat is still oppressive, just as much as the humidity, and the crickets are ramping up to a good racket all around them.

“What’s the matter, Big D?” Harry calls to Dudley and his approaching gang. “Beat up another ten year old?”

“This one deserved it,” Dudley says in what he probably thinks is a menacing manner. His cronies shuffle around and chuckle their assent. Harry stares at him for a moment, already exhausted by the sheer dumb look of them. 

“Five against one… How very brave.”

“Well you’re one to talk!” Dudley responds.

“What, standing up to you?” Harry asks. “Anyway, who exactly decided that  _ Big D _ was a good idea? Ooh, if we’re doing nicknames, shall I go with Diddykins? Diddy Dumpkin?”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What, or you’ll beat me up? You don’t wanna risk that one anymore, do you Dudders?”

Dudley ignores the uncertain looks he’s getting from Piers and Malcolm. “You’re not so brave at night, are you?”

Harry scrunches his face in utter perplexion. “At night? I’m not scared of the dark.”

“When you’re in bed, moanin’ away into your pillows!” Harry looks at him very pointedly, and he hurries to continue. 

_ “Oh, no, Cedric!” _ he cries in a crude and unsuccessful imitation, and the others laugh cruelly.  _ “Don’t kill Cedric! Voldemort’s back, Voldemort’s back! _ What kind of name is Voldemort, anyway?”

Harry takes in a sharp breath, teeth grinding in his jaw. The laughter becomes even more of an uproar.

“And who’s Cedric?” Dudley asks. “Your boyfriend?”

“He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be!” Harry snaps. 

_ “Help me, Mum! Help me Dad! Voldemort’s here!” _ Dudley barrels on. “Where is your mum? Where is your mum, Potter? She dead?” 

There’s a harsh round of ‘ooh’s from the boys before they resume their jeering. Harry throws himself forward, ripping away from the swing, and jams his wand right up under Dudley’s throat. “Don’t you say a word against them.”

The others are positively howling. Dudley, however, almost has his eyes crossed to keep sight of Harry’s wand, and is breathing so quickly and shallowly Harry thinks he might pass out.

“You can’t use that here,” he whispers. “You’ll be expelled, I know you will!”

“Who says they haven’t changed the rules?” Harry replies, dangerously.

“They haven’t,” Dudley says, but he doesn’t sound very sure. He swallows thickly.

Harry feels the wind whip up around his jeans. The sunlight is fading, quickly, and a faint crack of thunder sounds from over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Dudley says. “What are you—”

“I’m not,” Harry says, even though he knows it’s not true. His anger has spilled over, spilled  _ out _ and into the world, even though he hasn’t caused anything like this since he was thirteen.

“What are you doing?!” Dudley demands as the skies blacken. Things are blustering around their legs now—newspapers, empty cigarette packets, clumps of grass. Dudley’s gang friends aren’t looking so happy now.

“Er, let’s get out of here Dudley,” Gordon whimpers, backing away quickly. Piers and Malcolm follow his example and make a run for it. Thunder cracks again, and it’s so loud that shock jolts painfully up Harry’s spine. The clouds are swirling unnaturally, dark and heavy with the promise of a downpour. It reminds him of the tornadoes or hurricanes in the disaster films on TV, only ten times more unsettling. Things are flying, now, paper and plastic sweeping through the rapidly cooling air, and Harry knows this isn’t his magic anymore.

They run. They run side by side and keeping pace at full pelt down the worn, scorched path back to the housing estate. The thunder gargles thickly above them, chasing them, taunting. Harry chances a glance over his shoulder and sees the clouds billowing down blackly behind them. 

Halfway to the subway the tension breaks and rain buckets down in ropes, soaking them instantly and churning up the dust into mud. The tracks are running rivers by the time they reach the brutal concrete shelter, muddy and swamping their shoes even though they’re too frightened to care. Harry slows as they wander down, freezing now. The sheets of rain shiver at the opposite end of the subway, and the sodium lamps flicker. The cold is all-encompassing now, and he can start to feel any clutches of happiness he might have had begin to ebb away.

The lights flicker more violently, and they both watch as a film of frost creeps over them. Both Harry’s and Dudley’s breaths are tumbling visibly in front of them now, but this can’t be happening.

It  _ can’t. _

Something drifts over his right shoulder, and Harry snaps his gaze to it just in time for a dementor to take him by the neck and throw him up against the concrete wall. It advances on his face torturously slowly, and Harry has only the barest awareness of Dudley flattening himself against the opposite wall.

“Run… Dudley…” he chokes out.  _ “Run!” _

######  _ \- x - _

“Dementors?” says Mrs Figg. “In Little Whinging? Whatever next… The whole world’s gone topsy-turvy!”

“So this, this  _ Mundungus Fletcher, _ he was following me?” Harry asks. 

“Yes, of course,” says Mrs Figg. “Dumbledore won’t be happy, not at all…”

######  _ \- x - _

“We’re going out,” says Uncle Vernon. The key turns in the lock of Harry’s door when he leaves. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be jumping out of his window into the arms of his best friend and his brothers in their dad’s borrowed flying car.

It’s hours later, and night has fallen, but Harry still hasn’t moved from his bed when there’s a loud crash from the kitchen. The Dursleys can’t be home yet, he hasn’t heard the car in the drive. Burglars, then, he decides, and reaches for his wand. They must be especially terrible at their job, as he can very clearly hear their voices drifting up the stairs.

The lock on his door clicks again, and it swings open. 

Harry creeps onto the landing, wand aloft and wary. From the top of the stairs he can see them, and his heart leaps unbidden into his throat.

“Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone’s eye out,” growls the unmistakable Mad-Eye Moody.

“Professor?” he asks, not lowering his wand in the least.

“Not sure about Professor, never did get round to much teaching, did I?” Moody replies. “Now get down here, we want to see you properly!”

Harry lowers his wand—slightly. He doesn’t move.

“It’s all right, Harry,” says Remus Lupin. “We’ve come to get you out.”

“Professor Lupin?” he asks hopefully. “What are you all doing here?”

“Rescuing you, of course,” Lupin replies. Harry grins, and his heart soars.

“Why are we all standing in the dark?” asks a third, unfamiliar voice.  _ “Lumos.” _

The owner’s wandtip winks alight, illuminating the hallway in a bright white gleam. It’s even harder for Harry to make out who’s downstairs, now, but he knows there are a lot of them. Lupin stands closest the foot of the stairs, leaning up as if drawn to him. He looks greyer, Harry thinks as he adjusts to the light. Greyer and a little older, but happier. He’s smiling widely at Harry, who can’t help but take clumsy steps down towards him.

“Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would,” says the witch with the lit wand. She looks young behind the glare, bright-haired and bright-eyed and definitely the most energetic of the lot. “Wotcher, Harry!” 

Harry can hear the others talking about him, of course, but he doesn’t really care.

“Are you quite sure it’s him, Lupin?” asks Moody. “It’d be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater impersonating him. We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know—anyone brought any truth potions?”

“Harry, what form does your patronus take?” Lupin asks.

“A stag,” Harry replies, and then adds, “Prongs.”

Lupin grins. “That’s him, Mad-Eye.” He holds out a hand for Harry to take. Harry drops down the last few steps and grips it, still watching his face and doing a bad job of pretending to himself that he wouldn’t like a hug right now. Lupin smiles and pulls him forward into a side-hug, and Harry exhales through a grin.

“It’s good to see you, Professor.”

“Oh,” Lupin laughs, “please, just call me Remus.”

######  _ \- x - _

Tonks is brilliant. Harry already likes her a lot.

They usher him along the corridor of the dark, magical house and into the arms of the waiting Mrs Weasley.

“He’s here now,” she tells them over Harry’s shoulder, “the meeting’s just started.”

Harry is led straight upstairs without any of his questions answered. He steps up to the door, turns the snakehead handle, and opens it. The room is very tall, dark and has a small energetic owl zooming around, but that’s the most he sees before he’s engulfed by a loud shriek and some very bushy hair.

“Harry!” Hermione says. “Harry you’re finally here! Ron! He’s here!”

“Hello Hermione,” Harry laughs weakly. “It’s good to see you.”

She lets him go, just about. “Oh, we didn’t hear you arrive! How  _ are _ you? Are you furious with us? I bet you are; our letters were as good as useless but Dumbledore didn’t let us say anything and—and— _ dementors! _ When we heard about the Ministry, oh, it’s just outrageous! They can’t convict you, they just can’t! I’ve looked it up, and there’s a provision in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery—”

“Let him breathe, Hermione,” says Ron from behind Harry. He pokes them inside and closes the door, grinning. He’s taller again, by a whole few inches. Harry has to look up a bit to talk to him, like with all of his brothers.

A fluttering white blur leaps from a wardrobe and settles on Harry’s shoulder. “Hedwig!” He ruffles her feathers and she nibbles his ear.

“She was in a right state when she got here with your letters,” Ron says. He holds up a finger with a half-healed gouge mark. “Pecked us half to death.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry says. “I wanted answers.”

Ron nods quickly. “We wanted to give ’em to you, mate! Hermione was goin’ spare, thinking you might do something rash because we were leaving you so in the dark, but Dumbledore made us swear—”

“Not to tell me anything, yeah.”

“I’m sorry!” Hermione cries. “I’m so sorry!”

Despite her sincerity, something cold and uncomfortable is filling the pit of Harry’s stomach. He’s talking without thinking, stroking Hedwig and refusing to look at either of them. He hates it, but he can’t seem to shake it.

“Have either of you been attacked recently?” he asks. He knows it’s a cruel question. They’re trying their best. He still can’t stop.

“So you haven’t been in the meetings! Big deal!” he’s shouting now. “You’ve still been  _ here, together, _ while  _ I’ve _ been stuck in Privet Drive stealing papers out of bins saving my fuckwit cousin from  _ dementors!” _ Once he’s started, everything just seems to come spilling out. All the anger, the fear, he dumps it right onto them at an outrageous volume.

“Well?” he asks eventually.

“Er,” says Ron. “Well what?”

_ “Voldemort!” _

Hermione closes her eyes briefly. “We told you, Harry, they don’t tell us anything! We only know some things because of Fred and George’s Extendable Ears—”

“Extendable—?”

“Ears, yeah,” Ron says. “New invention. We managed to listen in on a bit, but Mum went mad when she found out and they had to hide them. We got a good bit of use out of them, though. We know some of the Order are following known Death Eaters, keeping tabs on them, you know—”

“Some are working on recruiting more people into the Order—”

“And some of them are standing guard over something. They’re always talking about guard duty.”

“Couldn’t’ve been me, could it?” Harry mutters.

“Oh, yeah,” Ron says with an air of sudden comprehension. Harry snorts.

“You said you’ve been busy. If you’re not in the Order, then what’ve you been doing?”

“Decontaminating,” Hermione says, at the same time Ron grumbles out, “Cleaning.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at him. “This place has been empty for ages, stuff’s been breeding. We’re working through the rooms one by one, but there are a lot of them. I think we’re starting the study—AH!” Two loud cracks make her shriek and jump. Harry jolts back again, and the owls ruffle their wings up on the wardrobe.  _ “Will—you—stop—doing that!” _

“Hello Harry!” says George, having appeared next to Fred at her shoulder. “We thought we heard your dulcet tones.”

“Yeah, don’t bottle that up, let it all out!” Fred says. “There were a couple of people fifty miles away that didn’t hear you.”

“Fred, George,” Harry sighs, bizarrely relieved. “I see you passed your apparition tests?”

“With distinction!” says Fred.

“Why do they get all the smiles,” Ron grumbles. Harry jerks properly upright, embarrassed. “And it would’ve taken you thirty seconds longer to walk down the stairs.”

“Time is galleons,” George says.

“Anyway, Harry, you’re interfering with the Extendable Ears.” Fred holds up a piece of pale beige string. “We’re trying to hear what’s going on—important meeting an’ all.”

The door clicks open and Ginny pokes her head through. “Oh, hi Harry! Thought I heard your voice. Anyway, Ears are a no-go, they’ve put an imperturbable charm on the door.”

“How’d you know that?” George asks, disappointed.

“Tonks said if you throw shit at it and it bounces off then it’s imperturbed,” she tells them “I’ve been chucking dungbombs down the stairs and they’re all just soaring away from it.”

She shuts the door and jumps up next to Ron on his bed. Fred perches on one end and sighs heavily. “That’s a shame, I wanted to hear what old Snape’s been up to.”

“Snape’s here?” Harry asks, dropping onto the bed opposite. 

“He’s on our side now,” Hermione says, sitting next to him.

“Doesn’t stop him from being a git,” Ron snorts. “The way he looks at us every time he sees us…”

“Bill doesn’t like him either,” Ginny sniffs, as if that settles it for good. Harry thinks it rather might.

“Bill’s here? He’s not in Egypt?”

“He applied for a desk job so he could come and work for the Order,” Fred says. “Says he misses the tombs, but,” he snickers, “there are benefits.”

“Oh?” Harry asks. 

_ “Fleur Delacour,” _ says George. “She’s got herself a job at Gringotts to improve her very good English.”

“Bill’s been giving her private lessons,” Ginny cackles.

“Charlie’s in the Order too,” George adds. “He’s stayed in Romania to network on his days off. Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards as he can get to join the cause.”

“Couldn’t Percy do that?” Harry asks, concerned when all of their faces close off immediately.

“Whatever you do, don’t mention Percy in front of Mum and Dad,” Ron tells him.

“What? Why not?”

“Because they go very quiet whenever his name comes up, and Mum starts crying,” says Fred.

Ginny looks down at her hands. “It’s been awful.”

“I think we’re well shot of him,” George says decisively.

Harry blinks between them, shocked. “What happened?”

“He and Dad had a row,” Fred says. “Never seen one like it—it’s usually Mum who shouts.”

“First week after term ended he came and told us he’d been promoted,” Ron says lowly.

“You’re kidding?” Harry says. His mind whirls, taking him back to his conversation with Oliver Wood at King's Cross while they explain.

“Dad reckons Fudge only wants Percy in his office because he wants to use him to spy on the family,” George explains eventually.

Harry lets out a long breath. He looks each of them in the eye. Oliver had told him he wasn’t to say anything… He’d  _ told _ him… But… Ginny looks like she’s about to cry. They’re heartbroken.

“I think I know what this is about,” Harry begins carefully. Fred and George narrow their eyes. “What if… What if he knows that?”

“What?” Ron splutters. “But that was what the whole argument was about!”

“I’m not sure it was.”

“How could you know?!” Fred demands. “You weren’t here!”

“No,” Harry says, “but Oliver Wood came to warn me at the end of last term, back at King’s Cross.”

“What?” Ginny asks faintly. They all stare at him expectantly.

Harry readjusts his crossed legs. “He asked me not to tell anyone, and said that I didn’t hear it from him, but, well… He said… He said that people we know are going to have to do things they don’t want to, and then he said it’ll probably be Percy. He—He said he was going undercover.” Hermione gasps. Ron and his brothers gape. “I think he knows that Fudge wants to use him. I think the argument was about letting him.”

“Oh my god!” Hermione whispers. “He’s a mole!” Everyone turns to her. “He’s not letting Fudge use him, he’s using Fudge!”

“What on earth does that mean?” Ron asks.

Hermione bites her lip. “It makes sense if you look at it this way: he’s gone in under the pretense of being on bad terms with his family, wanting to outdo his father at every turn, right? So Fudge thinks it will be easy, thinks Percy will tell him everything. But Percy only needs to tell him the harmless bits, drop in small truths until he builds up trust. Meanwhile he reports back to the Order, and when something goes really wrong, he can use all that trust he’s built to run them all in circles. It—It’s genius!”

“It’s  _ dangerous,” _ says George. 

“That must be why they were arguing,” Ginny murmurs. “Because Dad didn’t want him risking everything like that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Harry mumbles, picking at his socks.

Ron shakes his head. “No, it’s not your fault. Wood asked you not to tell. It could blow Percy’s cover, couldn’t it? We’ve gotta pretend we don’t know anything.”

Fred nods. “Right,” he says. “I’m… That’s good. I’m going upstairs.” 

With a crack, he’s gone. Harry sort of wishes George had gone with him when they tell him about the Daily Prophet’s ongoing smear campaign. It’s horrible even to hear about, and he’s probably bright red with shame and anger. He’s only just about saved by Mrs Weasley when they hear her on the stairs, as George looks down at the Extendable Ear in his hand and disapparates hastily.

“The meeting’s over,” she says, “you can come down to dinner now. Oh, and who left all those dungbombs outside the door?”

“Crookshanks,” Ginny lies easily. “He loves playing with them.”

Despite it all, Harry laughs.

######  _ \- x - _

“Hello Harry,” Sirius grins at the bottom of the stairs. “I see you’ve met my mother.”

######  _ \- x - _

“Fred, George—NO, JUST CARRY THEM!” Mrs Weasley shrieks. Harry, Sirius and Mundungus turn towards the racket and then dive for their lives; Fred and George have bewitched the cauldron of stew, iron flagon of butterbeer and a heavy wooden breadboard and knife to hurtle through the air towards them. The stew skids the length of the table, almost flying off the end, and leaves long scorch marks in its wake. The flagon falls with a clatter and a large splash, and the sharp, menacing bread knife lands point down in the table where Sirius’ right hand had been a moment earlier.

“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” Mrs Weasley continues. “THERE WAS NO NEED! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS—JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE ALLOWED TO USE MAGIC DOESN’T MEAN YOU HAVE TO WHIP YOUR WANDS OUT FOR EVERYTHING!”

“What’s the commotion?” asks Remus Lupin from the doorway. He smiles down at Harry and Sirius, rolling with laughter on the floor, and Fred hurrying towards the table and yanking out the knife. 

“We were just trying to save a bit of time!” he yelps. “Sorry Sirius, mate, we didn’t mean to—”

Mundungus swears as he gets to his feet. Crookshanks hisses from where he’s shot off under the dresser, and Ginny and Tonks are giggling.

“I thought it was Sirius back at the old tricks again,” Remus says warmly, cutting off whatever bollocking Mrs Weasley had been about to give the twins. “No need to worry, then.”

He helps Harry off the floor and then Sirius, who puts his arm around his waist as if it’s nothing. Harry blinks at them for only a second before turning back to the others.

“Let’s eat,” Bill says eagerly, helping his brothers sort out the mess.

Harry doesn’t miss the glances Hermione makes at Ginny over dinner while they laugh with Tonks. He doesn’t miss the hand that slips softly (innocently) over Sirius’ thigh while Remus talks to Bill and Mr Weasley about goblins.

He smiles quietly into his stew and watches Ron and the twins collapse over the table with laughter.

######  _ \- x - _

_ Crack! _

“OUCH!”

“Keep your voice down, you wimp!”

“You two just apparated on my knees!”

“Yeah, well, it’s harder in the dark.”

Harry snorts. He feels his bed dip as George sits himself on the edge.

_ “Lumos!” _

“Mum’ll be up,” Ron grumbles.

“She can’t see light through walls,” Fred scoffs. George grins down gleefully at Harry in the wandlight.

“So, you got there with the weapon yet?”

######  _ \- x - _

Mrs Weasley keeps them very busy over the next week and a bit. The drawing room takes three days to tackle, and even then the Black family tapestry and the shuddering desk remain. Everyone calls it some variation on cleaning or decontaminating, but Harry rather sees it as waging war on the house. He’s sure Sirius agrees. 

The house, anyway, puts up a good fight. While Fred and George are stealing biting snuff boxes and shrieking silverware for the rare ingredients they’re hiding, Harry and Ginny battle the dinnerplate-sized spiders in the dining room and Ron almost gets throttled by a garish set of purple robes. Hermione insists on being nice to Kreacher even when it’s obvious that he’s slagging her off to her face. Remus lands in the house for long enough to help them repair the bolt-firing grandfather clock. Harry chokes when he catches him snogging Sirius in the kitchen one evening, but where Remus is trying to hide in the man’s shoulder, Sirius looks completely unabashed.

“They’re insufferable,” Ron tells him later. “Sorry though, mate. Thought you knew.”

“I had my suspicions,” Harry says. A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth.

Ginny pouts. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Sicklier than darling Harry-kins’ blushing,” Fred says. Harry hits him.

But the teasing is better than the worried looks he gets from Ron and Hermione. Everything gets messier when activity winds down for the night and Harry is left to his thoughts and dreams. They watch him sometimes, after dinner, whispering to each other infuriatingly. It’s true, though, that in the aching loneliness of his mind he worries about everything. He worries about everything from Voldemort to the mentioned weapon, from Sirius’ restlessness to the Ministry hearing, and from the Percy dilemma to his own ridiculous crush on George—the likes of which has  _ not _ abated  _ at all _ since last year, meanwhile he keeps getting the horrible feeling that everyone knows.

And then Mr Weasley briefs him on what they’ll do the morning of the trial, and his heart sinks through the floor.

######  _ \- x - _

Ron doesn’t stir when Harry gets up the next morning. He lies sprawled on his back, mouth open and snoring, as Harry clicks the door shut. Harry wanders down the stairs, skipping the ones that squeak, and is surprised to find that the kitchen isn’t empty. Mr and Mrs Weasley, Sirius, Remus and Tonks are all sat around the table next to—holy hell.

_ “Percy?” _ Harry whispers.

“Oh, hullo Harry,” Percy says, putting his mug down on the table and smiling politely. “I just came by to drop in.”

Harry looks between everyone else gathered. Mrs Weasley is the only one not properly dressed—still in a fluffy purple dressing gown and slippers—and definitely not the only one looking tense. She leaps to her feet as if glad for the distraction.

“Breakfast,” she says, and hurries over to the hearth.

“M-Morning Harry,” Tonks yawns, blonde and curly-haired. “Sleep all right?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Been up all night myself. Come sit down.” She pulls out a chair, managing to knock over the one next to it in the process. 

“What do you want, Harry?” calls Mrs Weasley. “Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs? Toast?”

“Just some toast, please,” Harry says. 

“They’ve changed the time and place of the hearing,” Mr Weasley says, looking grim. “Percy’s just let us know.”

“It’s underhanded and cruel,” Percy scowls. “They’re banking on you being late or missing it completely. They’ve made a thing of it now, too, trying their best to get you locked away so you stop threatening their hold on society. Made it a full court trial, which is ridiculous for underage magic; more have gotten off after much worse.”

“Why are you here?” Harry asks uncertainly. His stomach had dropped through the floor at the mention of  _ full court trial, _ and so he does his utmost not to think about it. “Isn’t this really risky?”

Percy raises a brow as he takes a sip of his tea. “Oliver told you, didn’t he? I was surprised you weren’t fuming when you saw me.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Sorry.”

“Oh, nothing to apologise for,” he waves away. “This is a risk though, and I think I’d best be off—can’t be seen to arrive with you. No offence intended, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry says. Mrs Weasley places a plate of toast in front of him, but when he takes a bite it feels like chewing cardboard. Percy finishes his tea, kisses his mother on the cheek and leaves the kitchen. Harry hears the front door open and close, and another pair of feet coming down the stairs.

Remus smiles at Harry before leaning across to Tonks. “What were you saying about Scrimgeour?”

The next person to enter the kitchen is a scruffy, yawning George. His jumper is on backwards, and Harry almost chokes trying not to laugh.

“All right there?” he asks, and Harry nods. “Someone just gone out? I heard the door go.”

“No one, dear,” says Mrs Weasley terribly unconvincingly. “Your top is on backwards.”

“Oh, bollocks,” George mutters, and pulls it over his head. Just—in the middle of the kitchen. Where everyone can see. Harry doesn’t stare. 

Much. 

“How’re you feeling?” Mr Weasley asks Harry. Harry shrugs. “Well, it’ll all be over soon. It’s only a few hours, and then you’ll be cleared.”

“Just don’t lose your temper,” Sirius advises. “Be polite and stick to the facts.”

“The law’s on your side, Harry,” Remus adds. “As Percy said, more have gotten away with worse.”

Mr and Mrs Weasley suck in a shocked breath at the mention of Percy but George doesn’t stir. He stares down into his mug blearily, pretending he hasn’t heard a thing. Mrs Weasley then tries to comb Harry’s hair into submission. It refuses.

“I think we’ll head off now,” says Mr Weasley, frowning at his watch. “Wouldn’t want to be late now they’ve gone and changed it all on us. We’ll be back soon.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, dropping his toast and getting to his feet. 

“You’ll be all right,” says Tonks, patting him on the arm.

Sirius stands and hugs him, followed easily and unexpectedly by Remus. Harry clings to them for the few seconds he allows himself.

“Good luck, though I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Remus tells him. 

Sirius smirks. “I’ll see to them for you if it’s not.”

They follow Harry and Mr Weasley to the kitchen door, leaning against the frame to see them out the front. Light, quick footsteps follow them into the hallway, and Harry turns to them just as Mr Weasley gets the front door open.

“Harry,” says George, having slipped between the adults in the kitchen. He reaches out to take Harry’s hand, not thinking to hide how he’s worrying his lip with his teeth. “You’ll be all right, yeah? You tell ’em what happened and remember what Hermione told you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, squeezing their hands briefly. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.”

Harry follows Mr Weasley out onto Grimmauld Place. The door slams loudly behind them.

######  _ \- x - _

“I knew it!” Ron yells, shaking his fist victoriously. “You always get away with stuff!”

“They were bound to clear you!” Hermione quavers, gone from near-faint with anxiety to covering her probably damp eyes in a moment. “There was no case against you, none at all!”

“You all look quite relieved considering you knew I’d get off,” Harry grins. Mrs Weasley wipes her face on her apron and Fred elbows George cheekily as they and Ginny jump around in the corner to a chant that goes  _ ‘He got o-off! He got o-off He got o-off!’ _ repeatedly.

“Settle down, settle down,” says Mr Weasley, though he’s smiling too. “Listen, Sirius, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry—”

“What?”

_ “He got o-off! He got o-off! He got o-off!” _

“Shush, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on the ninth floor before they went up to Fudge’s office. Dumbledore ought to know.”

“Absolutely,” Sirius nods. “We’ll tell him, don’t worry.”

“Well, I’d best be off again. There’s a vomiting toiling causing havoc in Bethnal Green. I’ll be late tonight, Molly, I’m covering Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping by for dinner—”

Ginny and the twins keep chanting. Harry has taken to covering his ears from the racket, but is laughing at their excitement and the stupid faces Fred is making at him.

“That’s enough!” Mrs Weasley shouts. “Harry dear, come and have some lunch. You barely ate breakfast this morning.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione settle themselves eagerly at the table. Fred, George and Ginny are still singing, though they’re serving food like it’s a banquet. Harry’s scar sears, suddenly, but he only makes as much a deal of it as “It happens all the time now, ’Mione,” before they’re all startled by Mrs Weasley.

“SHUT UP!” she roars, and the noisy trio quiet instantly. 

“So,” says Fred, this time at a normal volume, “how are you going to celebrate  _ getting off?” _

“Anywhere away from you at this rate,” Ron grumbles.

Fred grins. “Fine by me.”

######  _ \- x - _

“So,” Harry says. “You’re, er, going out with—”

“Remus?” Sirius finishes, smiling softly. “Does it bother you?”

“No!” Harry hurries to assure him. “No, not at all! I just… Didn’t know. Does anyone else have, er, problems with it?”

Sirius tilts his head to the side and perches on the back of a sofa. “I don’t think so. Maybe Molly, but everyone seems to think our business is our own.”

“Mrs Weasley?” Harry asks, chewing on his lip. If Mrs Weasley has a problem, that’s… 

“Oh, nothing like that,” Sirius laughs. “She doesn’t approve of letting people walk in on us all over the place.”

Harry grins. “So you  _ are _ doing it on purpose!”

“It’s my house!” Sirius protests. “Anyway, Harry, did you need to ask me about something?”

Harry shifts from one foot to the other, worrying his nails with his fingers. “How is it, with two men?” he asks before he can back out.

Sirius smiles and reaches out to still his fretting hands. “I won’t lie and tell you it’s easy,” he says. “Some people will always want to give you a hard time. Some people don’t care. We’re lucky that everyone around us is kind and open-minded, but otherwise, dating blokes is just like dating women. We’re all human here.”

Harry nods and swallows harshly.

“Is this about Ron?”

“What?! No!” He balks. “He’s—he’s my best mate, not—!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Sirius chuckles. “Just thought I’d ask. Would you like to tell me, Harry, or shall I keep my silly nose out of it? Merlin knows Moony’s always saying I’m sticking it where it doesn’t belong…”

“No, it’s…” Harry doesn’t really know what to say. He can tell Sirius, he knows he can, but this just makes it real. It’s too close to home, it’s… “It’s fine, Sirius, I think. I just… It’s—”

Behind them, the door slams open, bouncing against the wall with a heavy thud.

“Just so you know!” Ron interrupts loudly, breathing like he’s just run the length of the house. “Ginny, Fred and George are at the top of the stairs with their Extendable Ears, and this door isn’t imperturbed.”

Harry smiles, though he can feel himself going red again. “Thanks, Ron.”

“Right,” Ron says. “Right, yeah. All okay.” He backs out of the room and off up the stairs again.

“You have a good friend,” Sirius tells him, standing and patting Harry on the arm. “Remember, you can talk to Moony and I at any time, okay? We’re all here for you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says again. “And I think it’s nice.”

Sirius pats him on the shoulder again and wanders, smiling, from the room.

######  _ \- x - _

“What’s up with you, Ron?” Fred asks. Ron doesn’t answer. He instead stands stock still, gaping at his Hogwarts letter.

Harry and the twins peer at him, even as Fred marches over to look over his shoulder. His mouth drops open too.

“Prefect?!” he says incredulously.  _ “Prefect?!” _

George leaps forward, seizing the envelope and tipping it upside down. Something small, shiny, scarlet and golden drops into his hand. “Bloody hell,” he says. “No way.”

“We thought it would be you!” Fred says, turning to Harry. “You’re the favourite!”

“Must’ve caused too much trouble,” George grins.

Fred inclines his head agreeably. “Well at least  _ someone _ has his priorities in order.”

“Oooh, Mum is going to be revolting.”

“Well done, Ron,” Harry says, smiling widely. George thrusts the badge back at Ron as if it might burn him and goes to hide behind Harry. 

“Fear the goody two-shoes!” he cries.

The door crashes open behind them. Hermione and Ginny streak inside, letters in hand.

“Did you get it?” Hermione asks Harry at an excited, ear-splitting pitch. “Did you—oh!  _ Ron! _ That’s amazing!” She dives forward to hug him, seeing the badge glinting in his hand. “Well done, Ron! I’m one too! We—”

“Woah, Hermione,” Ron says, finally knocked out of his stupor. “You’re a prefect? Well, of course you are—”

“Ron? Prefect?” asks Ginny, just as baffled as her brothers. She looks to them all questioningly, but Harry can only shrug. The door opens again to Mrs Weasley trundling in sideways, toting a large stack of freshly laundered robes.

“Ginny said the booklists have come at last,” she says, smiling. “If you give them to me I’ll take them to Diagon and make sure we get everything while you pack. Ron, I’ll have to get you some more pyjamas, these are at least six inches too short—I can’t believe how fast you’re growing! What colour would you like?”

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” George smirks, leaning his elbow on Harry’s shoulder.

“His what? Badge?” Mrs Weasley asks, already rolling up Ron’s socks on the pile.

“Yeah,  _ badge,” _ Fred says gloomily. “His lovely shiny new  _ prefect’s badge.” _

Mrs Weasley blinks. She turns around to them and takes in all of their letters, bewilderment, and Hermione’s excitement. “Oh!” she cries, face splitting into a huge smile. “That’s wonderful!”

She squeals and runs to hug her son. “I don’t believe it! That’s everyone in the family!”

“Hey!” says George indignantly. “What are Fred and I—nextdoor neighbours?” Harry lifts a hand to pat his arm in consolation, unfortunate enough to catch Ginny’s knowing eye.

Mrs Weasley fusses senselessly over Ron while Harry laughs and Fred and George make retching noises behind her back. Hermione doesn’t know what to do with herself, hugging Harry and then Ginny (for probably the second or third time, by the looks) while they wait for the commotion to die down.

“It’s okay,” George murmurs in Harry’s ear. “Prefects get a shit deal anyway, having to run after everyone else  _ plus _ the first-years.”

Harry laughs a little. “Thanks, it’s all right.” 

The thought still stings a bit. 

######  _ \- x - _

By dinner Mrs Weasley is happier than Harry’s seen her in weeks. A large red banner hangs across the kitchen, announcing,

_ Congratulations Ron and Hermione! _

_ New Prefects _

Almost all of the Weasleys descend alongside half the Order, including Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mundungus and Mad-Eye Moody. Each of them congratulate Ron and Hermione around mouthfuls of Mrs Weasley’s brilliant food, and Tonks even manages not to break anything. 

“Ah, in our day it was little Lupin who got the badge!” Sirius tells them, and Harry feels instantly better about not being made prefect—his father hadn’t been one either, after all. He sidles towards his godfather and Remus, where Hermione is recounting how she set fire to Snape’s cloak in second year. Sirius guffaws loudly, swinging the hand he has tucked into Remus’ and complimenting her on her genius. Harry grins and helps her with the retelling of Norbert the dragon before Mrs Weasley drags him into the usual argument she’s resumed with Bill.

“...it’s getting really out of hand,” she says, running her fingers through Bill’s ponytail. “And you’re so good-looking! It would look much better shorter, wouldn’t it Harry?”

“Oh,” Harry says, startled, “I dunno. I mean... I like it how it is.” He looks at Bill and smirks. “Fleur likes it, too.”

“Fleur?” he asks. “Fleur Delacour?”

“The very same.”

“Oh, Mum!” comes Fred’s voice. “Don’t ask Harry for his opinion—we all know Bill’s ready to sweep him off his feet!”

Harry chokes on his butterbeer. “What?!”

Fred, as usual, winks. Mrs Weasley looks rather taken aback.

“I’ll do my best to hold back,” Bill assures them, suppressing a rather forceful laugh. 

Fred rolls his eyes and pokes Harry repeatedly in different places until he squeaks. “Come on, Harry, we have things to show you.” 

He takes him over to the corner where he and George have been conversing in a clandestine hush with Mundungus Fletcher.

“Look what Dung’s got us,” George says quietly, holding out his open palm. He’s cradling a handful of what appear to be dried black pods, which, while completely stationary, are emitting an alarming sort of rattling noise. “Venomous tentacula seeds! We’ve been needing them for the Snackboxes, but they’re a Class-C non-tradeable so we’ve been having trouble.”

“You’re not going to kill anyone with them, are you?” Harry asks. 

George’s lips twitch upwards. “Well, we’ll try our best not to.”

Harry watches their little dealing with a detached fascination, even chivvying Mundungus into a good price with the threat of Moody. Fred grins and runs off upstairs to stow them wherever they stow all the dangerous and illegal things they have.

“Why does he keep doing that?” Harry asks.

George takes a sip of his drink. “Doing what?”

“Running off right after he’s—”  _ brought us together, _ “—pulled me after him.”

“Merlin knows,” George says, though he won’t look Harry in the eye. Harry bites his lip and hides a smile.


	7. Fifth Year, II

“What’s going on?” Ron asks from the fifth-year dormitory doorway. He looks from Harry, kneeling on his bed with his wand, to Seamus, standing across the dorm with his fists at the ready.

“He’s having a go at my mother!” Seamus seethes.

“What? Harry wouldn’t do that. We met your mother, she was really nice.”

“That’s before she started eating up everything the sodding _Prophet_ spits out about me!” Harry yells.

“Oh,” says Ron. His face clears of confusion immediately. “Ah.”

“You know what?” Seamus says venomously. “He’s right. I don’t want to share a dormitory with him anymore. He’s mad.”

“Now that’s out of order,” Ron says coldly, the tips of his ears going warning-sign red.

“Out of order, am I?” Seamus shouts. “You believe all the rubbish he comes out with about You-Know-Who, do you? Reckon they’re telling the truth?”

“Funnily enough, I don’t turn my back on my best mate’s trauma,” he snaps.

“The lot of you are mad,” Seamus sneers.

“Yeah? Well unfortunately for you, pal, I’m also a prefect! So unless you want detention you better _watch your mouth!”_

Seamus continues to froth with anger, possibly thinking hard about whether or not it’s worth the detention. After a few seconds of heavy breathing he turns and climbs onto his bed, pulling his curtains over hard enough that they tear themselves from the rail and land in a heap on the floor. 

“Anyone else’s parents have a problem with Harry, huh?” Ron asks aggressively.

Dean scoffs. “My parents are muggles, mate, and they don’t know nothing about any murders here because _I’m_ not stupid enough to tell them.”

“My gran says it’s all rubbish they’re printing,” Neville says. “She says it’s the Prophet that’s going bad, not Dumbledore. You-Know-Who had to come back at some point, she told me, and if Dumbledore says he’s back, then he’s back.”

“Right, all good then,” Ron says, and Harry feels a huge rush of gratitude towards him and Neville. Ron flicks his wand and Seamus’ curtains repair themselves, though Seamus snarls and disappears behind them without a word. Dean inhales in a rather exasperated way and shrugs to the rest of them.

“Night all,” he says, and climbs into his own bed.

“Night,” Neville replies.

“Night,” Ron mutters.

Harry chews a little on his lip, wondering if any of the other dorms had heard. Wondering how many of them agree with Seamus.

“Night,” he says, and extinguishes his light.

######  _\- x -_

Everywhere they go, without fail, people are whispering.

“How can Dumbledore allow this!” Hermione wails into the empty common room. “How can he let that terrible woman teach us! In our OWL year, too!”

“Well, we’ve never had very consistent teaching in Defence,” Harry says. “You know what Hagrid said about nobody wanting the job, they all think it’s jinxed.”

“But to employ someone who won’t let us use magic _at all?_ What’s he playing at!?”

“And she’s trying to get people to spy for her,” Ron mutters darkly. “Remember she said to let her know if anyone’s saying You-Know-Who’s back?”

“Of course she wants spies, why else would the Ministry put her here?” Hermione snaps.

“Can we not, please?” Harry sighs, cutting off Ron’s next argument. The portrait is swinging open behind them, and Harry can feel the growing numbers of eyes on his back. “Can’t we just… We need to get some of that homework done.”

“Shall we do Snape’s stuff first?” Ron asks, digging around his bag for his ink. He pulls it out and settles onto a table. _“The properties… of moonstone… and its uses… in… potioneering…_ Right.” He looks up from his parchment and to Hermione, expectantly. “What are its uses?”

Hermione isn’t paying them any attention. Ink from her quill drips onto her skirt as her hand drifts from her parchment. She’s instead looking over her shoulder, eyes narrowed at the knot of little first-years in the corner, at the centre of which are Fred, George and Lee.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says, standing abruptly. “They’ve gone too far. Come on, Ron.”

“I—what?” Ron splutters. “Hermione, come on. We can’t tell them off for giving out sweets!”

“You know perfectly well those are Nosebleed Nougat or, or Puking Pastilles, or—”

“Fainting Fancies?” Harry suggests. Over in the corner, each of the first-years are keeling over in quick succession. Some slump in their seats, some flop doll-like to the floor, and some collapse in a dramatic fashion worthy of Draco Malfoy. Fred and George are busy scrawling notes on their clipboards, and a lot of their observers are laughing, but Hermione wrinkles her nose in disgust and marches over. Ron makes an aborted movement to go after her, but sinks so deeply back into his seat that Harry thinks he might be folding into four.

“She’s got it under control,” he mutters, obviously unwilling to deal with his older brothers.

“That’s enough!” Hermione’s harsh demand carries over the room, bringing most of its occupants to a hush. Fred and George look up at her in surprise, quills still moving eagerly across parchment.

“You’re right,” says George, recovering himself. “This dosage looks just right, doesn’t it?”

“I told you this morning!” Hermione continues. “You can’t be testing your stuff on students! God knows what they could be allergic to!”

“We’re paying them!” Fred says indignantly. “And we ask!”

“I don’t care! It’s dangerous!”

“Rubbish!”

“Calm down, Hermione, they’re fine!” says Lee, walking from first-year to first-year and putting a small purple sweet into each of their mouths. They come around very quickly, looking quite shocked to find themselves splayed across the floor or halfway out of their chairs. Harry guesses they weren’t warned beforehand.

“Look,” says George. “They’re all right, aren’t you?” A small, dark haired girl blinks up at him from the floor. He helps her sit up gently. “Feel all right?”

“I… I think so,” she says, looking a bit woozy. Within moments she seems to come back to herself, looking down at her hand in his and going instantly pink. 

Well, now that Harry knows he’s on the same level as the first years, he thinks he might just have a nice trip out of the window, thanks.

Hermione snatches the bag of sweets out of Fred’s hands. “This is _not_ excellent!” 

“Course it is—they’re alive, aren’t they?”

“You can’t! What if you make someone really ill!”

“We test them on ourselves first!”

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to—”

“What, put us in detention?” Harry cringes at Fred’s adoption of his I’d-like-to-see-you-try tone. That can never be a good thing with Hermione.

“Make us write lines?” George smirks.

“I know those won’t work,” Hermione says, drawing herself to her full height. “But I _will_ write to your mother.”

The grins drain from their faces immediately. George takes a step back from her.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh yes I would!” she says. “I can’t stop you eating the damn things yourselves, but I _can_ stop you terrorising the first-years!”

“Hermione,” Harry says. Every eye wheels to him. “Would you be less angry if they were testing on the older years?”

Hermione bristles. “That’s not the point, Harry!”

“But would you?”

She chews the inside of her lip for a long moment. “As long as they’re over fifteen.”

“We’re asking the first-years because we need to know we’re not going to hurt them!” Fred protests. “Their magic is younger, it’s less resistant!”

“Hermione,” Ron pipes up. “They’re trying to build a business. How would you feel if we told you you couldn’t revise for your OWLs?”

It’s both the right and the wrong thing to say. Hermione shouts in frustration and thrusts the paper bag into Fred’s chest. “No more testing on first-years, or I’ll write to your mother about all of you!” She storms back over to Harry and Ron, and they both cower into the sofa cushions. “And of _course_ you’re on their side! Never with me! Thanks for the help, _Ron.”_ She picks up her parchments angrily and whirls away up the dormitory stairs.

“You two all right?” George asks quietly, slipping over to lean on the back of their sofa. 

“Fine,” Ron mumbles. “But we’re never gonna get this done now.”

“Moonstones…” George murmurs. “Draught of peace, and if I remember correctly, usually in love potions. Something to do with channelling positive emotions, serotonin and oxytocin and all that. It’s used as a stabilising and oxidising agent.”

Ron looks stricken. “Sero-what now?”

“Serotonin,” Harry repeats. “Thanks, George.”

He grins. “No problem. Thanks for your help. Will you be willing to volunteer for us?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Only if you can get us out of Umbridge’s classes.”

######  _\- x -_

“I want you to write, _I must not tell lies,”_ Umbridge tells him.

“How many times?” he asks, and it could maybe even pass as polite.

“Oh,” she says sweetly, “as many times as it takes for the message to _sink in.”_

######  _\- x -_

By the third night, the words are no longer healing properly on his skin. Harry runs into Ron on the way back to the tower, and he’s blissfully preoccupied with his own embarrassment.

Harry’s torn, then, between his selfishness screaming, _Notice me, notice me! Notice I’m in pain!_ and his stubborn defiance insisting, _I cannot let her get to me._

Ron does notice, in the end, because he’s Harry’s best friend.

“That’s torture!” he shouts. “That old hag! She’s sick! You have to go to McGonagall—!”

“No,” Harry says immediately. “I can’t give her the satisfaction of running to other people.”

 _“What?_ This is illegal!”

“I don’t know how much power McGonagall has over her,” Harry hisses. “Or, more importantly, how much power _she_ has over McGonagall!”

“Dumbledore—”

“Has enough on his mind.” Rather, Harry isn’t going to someone who refuses to even look at him anymore.

“Are you going to give me the password or are we going to stand out here all night?” the Fat Lady interrupts. Ron mutters under his breath all the way up to the dorm.

######  _\- x -_

_Dear Padfoot,_

_It’s starting to get colder here, winter is definitely on the way. Despite now that we’re back at Hogwarts, I think I feel more alone than ever—I know you of all people will understand that._

_Umbridge is here to make our lives hell. She’s going to start taking over, I can feel it. She’s got us reading chapter after chapter out of some ridiculous textbook and preaching that nothing at all exists outside of these walls. Not even any of the things Moony’s told us about already. I’ve already landed myself detention just for mentioning Voldemort in her presence, and she’s decided to hate all of Gryffindor by extension._

_On the upside, Fred and George are making brilliant progress with their Skiving Snackboxes. I think they’ll be going into proper production soon. Some of the other stuff they have is bloody brilliant, I know you’ll love them when we see you next._

_I hope you and Moony are doing all right. I miss you._

_Stay safe,_

_Love,_

_Harry_

######  _\- x -_

“Well, I think I’ve made my point, Mr Potter. You may go.”

Harry picks up his bag and leaves the room as quickly as he can, scar aching. His stomach swoops horribly with apprehension. _Stay calm,_ he tells himself. _It probably doesn’t mean anything. Just a coincidence._

“Mimbulus mimbletonia!” he gasps to the Fat Lady, halting his sprint just before he crashes into her. She swings open and a wave of noise hits him. Ron comes running forward, absolutely beaming.

“I did it, Harry! I’m in, I’m keeper!” he says.

“What? That’s brilliant!” Harry tells him, grinning despite the throbbing of his bleeding hand.

“Have a butterbeer,” Ron says, pushing a bottle onto him. “I’m, I can’t believe it! Where’s Hermione gone?”

“She’s over there,” says Fred, also swigging his butterbeer. He tips his head over to an armchair by the fireplace in which Hermione is plainly falling asleep, drink tipping precariously in hand.

Ron sags slightly. “She was pleased when I told her.”

“Let her sleep,” George tells them hastily. Harry realises that several of the first-years bear signs of recent nosebleeds.

“Oh yeah, Harry!” Ron says suddenly. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine,” Harry replies quickly, hiding it behind his back. Ron looks at him.

“It’s not, is it.”

“It’s _fine,_ Ron.”

Behind him, Fred swears loudly. “Harry, you’re bleeding!”

“Holy fuck,” Ron murmurs, when Harry instinctually snatches his hand back to his chest. He looks down, and realises his blood is indeed soaking into the hem of his robes. The cuts sting with every movement.

“What the fuck is this?” George asks. He takes Harry’s hand and turns his palm down. The three of them converge on him, thankfully hiding him from sight. _“I must not tell lies…”_

“This is illegal,” Fred says very seriously. “She’s torturing you.”

“That’s what I said,” Ron hisses. “He doesn’t want to tell anyone.”

“Harry, that’s absolute nonsense. She’s not allowed to do this.”

“I can’t, okay?” Harry says, trying to tug his hand back. George keeps hold of it and Fred draws his wand. He mutters something, running it along Harry’s hand and wrist, and the blood seems to reabsorb into his skin. He shivers.

“What the hell?” Ron asks. 

Fred rolls his eyes. “We had to learn, didn’t we? All that stuff we were making, we couldn’t let Mum find out when we hurt ourselves.”

The words are an angry red against Harry’s skin. Blood continues to trickle from them, though more slowly this time. He has a feeling that no magic he can find is going to remove them, at least not at their level.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, and slips out of George’s grip. All three of them grimace, but let him go.

“Ron!” calls Katie. “Come over here a sec, let’s see if Oliver’s robes fit you!”

He, Fred and George give Harry one last worried look before Angelina ushers them away and steps up next to Harry.

######  _\- x -_

The morning sun is bright and pale as Harry climbs the steps to the Owlery that Sunday. The glassless windows dazzle him, throwing beams of sunlight in spirals across the tower floor. Hundreds of owls rustle up in the rafters, restless or full and sated, and the straw-cover floor crunches under his feet with the snapping of hundreds of tiny animal bones.

“There you are,” he says when he spots Hedwig up near the very high ceiling. “Come on, I have a letter for you.” Hedwig hoots and stretches her wings, fluttering down onto his shoulder. “Right, now I know this says Snuffles, but I need you to send it to Sirius, okay?” She blinks at him, and he smiles. “Safe flight.”

He stands at the window for a few minutes, watching her swoop down over the valley and back up over the hills. The sunlight is warm, a coveted rarity, and he basks in it. The treetops of the Forbidden Forest sway leisurely, a shivering of waves over green velvet. The conditions are perfect for flying, perfect for their training session later… 

And then he sees it. A black form emerging from the canopy, close enough that he can make out its black, skeletal form and its huge, outstretched wings. It soars for merely a second or two before plunging back beneath the leaves. One of the same creatures as those pulling the Hogwarts carriages.

The door to the Owlery swings open and Harry jumps. He whirls around only to see Cho Chang, equally as surprised, holding a letter and parcel in her hands.

“Hi,” Harry says, twitching a smile.

“Hi,” she replies. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here so early. I only remembered five minutes ago, but it’s my mum’s birthday.”

Harry nods. “Oh, of course, happy birthday to her.”

She laughs. “Thank you.” She looks around for an owl, finding a sleek school barn owl and coaxing it down onto her arm. It holds out a leg for her to attach her parcel.

“Nice day,” Harry says, at a complete loss. He could hit himself. The _weather? Really?_

“Yes, brilliant quidditch conditions. I haven’t been out all week, have you?”

“No,” Harry sighs, a little captivated by her shimmering waterfall of black hair.

“Oh, has Gryffindor found a new keeper yet?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, it’s my friend, Ron Weasley.”

“Oh yes,” she says. “The Tornados hater. Is he any good?”

“Yeah, I think so. Didn’t see his tryout, though, was too busy in detention.”

Cho looks up at him, smiling sadly. “That Umbridge woman’s foul, putting you in detention just because you’re trying to tell the truth… I wanted to thank you again, by the way. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”

Harry frowns. “What for?”

“For saving Cedric’s life,” she says, smiling properly. “He told us about it. We believe you both, obviously, it’s just…” She shivers. “It’s scary to think what could have happened.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “You don’t have to thank me though. Any other ending is unbearable.”

Filch comes wheezing into the room soon after, muttering about dungbomb orders.

######  _\- x -_

Harry, Ron and Hermione sit themselves at the Gryffindor table after their particularly atrocious Potions class.

“Obviously, I’d have been _thrilled_ if I’d got an ‘O’—”

“Hermione,” Ron says, “if you want to know what grades we got, just ask.”

She flounders. “I don’t—I didn’t mean—well, if you want to tell me—”

“I got a ‘P’,” he says, ladling soup sloppily into his bowl. “Happy?”

“Well that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” says Fred, arriving with George and Lee who sits to Harry’s right. “Nothing wrong with a good, healthy ‘P’.”

“Doesn’t that stand for…”

“Poor, yeah,” Lee says. “Still better than a ‘D’ for Dreadful.”

Harry does his usual trick of going red when least convenient, so he fakes a coughing fit over his bread roll. Even when he reemerges, Hermione is still grilling them all about the grading system.

“So an ‘O’ is for Outstanding, and then there’s an ‘A’, for—”

“No no,” George corrects, “there’s ‘E’ next, for Exceeding Expectations. I still think Fred and I should’ve got Es in everything just for turning up to the exams.” Everyone laughs, even Hermione, who giggles into her bowl.

“If there’s ever an ‘E’ you can get, it’ll be for _Exceedingly Annoying,”_ Ginny says, and the volume of laughter rises several notches.

“So then,” Hermione continues, grinning, “so then there’s ‘A’, for Acceptable, and that’s the pass grade, right?”

“Yep,” Fred says, dunking his roll and shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Ginny makes a face and throws her scrunched up napkin at him. It bounces off his face as he swallows and lands in his water. “And then you get a ‘P’ for Poor,” at which Ron raises his arms in celebration, “and a ‘D’ for Dreadful.”

“And then,” George says, “there’s the ultimate glory of a _‘T’.”_

“A ‘T’?” Hermione asks. “Even lower than a ‘D’? What does that stand for?”

“Troll,” George answers flatly, and Harry snorts. They all laugh again, and he can’t decide whether or not he thinks George is joking.

######  _\- x -_

And then Harry lands himself another week of detentions. The cuts on his hand split open gladly, and he doesn’t bother to stop the blood welling up on the desk surface. There’s a puddle by the time he leaves, and the damn thing’s still bleeding at breakfast the next morning. The worst part though, as George had predicted, is the right walloping he’s getting from Angelina.

“Miss Johnson, how _dare_ you make such a racket in the hall!” says Professor McGonagall, stalking towards them. “Five points from Gryffindor!”

“But Professor! He’s gone and got himself detention _again—”_

“What’s this, Potter?” Professor McGonagall asks, turning on him sharply. Her telling-off is possibly worse than Angelina’s, just because of the disappointment he can sense behind the tone.

“Potter,” she says, “you must get a grip on yourself! You are heading for serious trouble! Another—” She stops. “What on earth is that?”

Harry follows her gaze to the table, where he’d been squeezing his fist around his spoon against the pain. Blood has dripped from the tail of his ‘I’ to the polished wood surface. He drops the spoon and pulls his hand away, hiding it from view.

“Nothing, Professor.”

She lowers her voice so the Hufflepuffs don’t hear. “No, Potter, you’re bleeding. Show me.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” he says, even as he slowly gives over his hand. “I’m fine, Professor, I promise, it’s—”

“Oh, Merlin,” says Professor McGonagall under her breath. “Is this her doing?”

Harry nods. Angelina leans over McGonagall’s shoulder and gasps. 

“Holy hell,” she says loudly. “That can’t be allowed!”

“Professor!” Harry says desperately as McGonagall straightens, looking furious. “Professor, you can’t! She’ll be on you, next, she’ll use any excuse!”

Professor McGonagall stares down at him. Her jaw works as she thinks, and Harry worries she might bite her tongue off.

“I must speak to Dumbledore,” she says, and walks on swiftly. 

“Fuck, Harry,” Angelina says. “I… I’m…”

“It’s fine, really,” he promises. “I’m okay. I just can’t let her think it’s getting to me, okay?”

“Harry, this is stupid,” Hermione says. 

“She wants you to suffer and you’re playing right into her hands,” Ron adds.

“Please,” Harry says. “I can deal with this. I promise. I’ll do my best not to do it again, Angelina.”

“Thank you,” she tells him. When she walks away she still looks shocked.

######  _\- x -_

“She’s an awful woman!” Hermione says once Harry’s submerged his hand in the murtlap essence. _“Awful._ You know, I was just saying to Ron when you came in, but we’ve got to do something about her.”

“I suggested poison,” Ron tells him grimly.

“No,” Hermione says softly, “I mean something about how dreadful a teacher she is.”

“Well what can we do about that?” Ron yawns. “’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job and Fudge made sure she’s here to stay.”

Hermione licks her lip nervously. “I was thinking about it today, but… I was rather thinking it’s time we should, er—” she glances guiltily to Harry, “—do it ourselves.”

Harry narrows his eyes at her. “Do what ourselves?”

“Learn Defence Against the Dark Arts ourselves. Teach ourselves.”

Ron groans, and loudly. “Come off it! You want us to do _more_ work? You do realise how behind Harry and I are already, don’t you?”

“This is much more important than homework!” she protests, and both Harry and Ron stare. Harry feels the urge to check her temperature.

“More important than homework? Are you feeling all right?”

“I didn’t think there was anything in the universe more important than homework!”

“Of course there is,” Hermione fusses. “It’s like Harry said at the beginning of term: it’s about preparing ourselves for what’s out there. If we don’t learn anything for a whole year—”

“We can’t do much by ourselves,” Ron points out. “I mean, we can go and look stuff up in the library and try to practise it after, I suppose, but—”

“No, no, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage of learning from books. What we need is a real teacher, a properly good one, who can show us how to use the spells and then correct us where we’re going wrong.”

Harry grimaces. “If you’re talking about Moony…” 

“No, I’m not talking about Lupin, he’s much too busy nowadays, and we’d only be able to see him during Hogsmeade weekends, which are far too infrequent.”

“Who, then?”

“Well…” she says. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m talking about _you,_ Harry”

A moment of silence rings through the room, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

“About me, what?” Harry asks eventually.

“I’m saying that you should teach us Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry stares at her. He knows his jaw is hanging open, but he can’t spare the mind to close it. He looks to Ron, ready to be able to share his disbelief, but to his consternation, finds him nodding along agreeably.

“That’s an idea,” he says.

“What is?” Harry asks. “What’s an idea?”

“You, teaching us.”

“What…?” 

Harry stares for another long moment until a breathy laugh forces itself from his throat. He shakes his head. “You’re joking, right?”

“Harry, there’s no one better for us at the moment than you,” Hermione insists. “You’re right when you say you’ve done incredible things—things we can’t even imagine—and you can help us prepare ourselves for that.”

“She’s right mate,” Ron agrees. “I really think this could be great.” 

Hermione pats Harry’s uninjured hand softly. “Just think on it, okay?”

“Yeah…” Harry manages. “Yeah, okay.”

######  _\- x -_

“A couple of people?” Harry hisses. _“A couple of people?”_

Hermione purses her lips. “Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular.”

“Hi,” Fred says to the barman, leaning across the wood with his usual confidence and doing a quick head count. “Could we have… twenty-six butterbeers, please?”

The barman, who reminds Harry of someone he must have seen somewhere, acquiesces with a glower.

“Cheers,” Fred grins. “Cough up, everyone. I haven’t got enough gold for all of these!”

George takes a sweep around the pub and spots them in the corner. He grins around the neck of his bottle and waves a few fingers.

“What have you been telling people?” Harry asks Hermione, realising the large group are probably expecting some sort of speech and that he’ll have to make it up on the fly, in front of _people._ “What are they expecting?”

“I told you!” she says. “They just want to hear what you have to say! I’ll speak to them first, don’t worry.”

Harry is glad, suddenly, for the length of the bench running the back wall that Hermione had seated them in. Neville sits beside them with a cheery greeting, followed by Cho, Cedric and their friend. Once everyone settles, excited and chattering though they are, silence falls and they all turn to look at Harry. Hermione stands at the head of the run of tables and discreetly casts a muffling charm around them, eyeing the bandaged man and the thickly-veiled witch not-so-subtly listening in.

“Er,” she says. “Hello all. It’s good to see you.”

Everyone looks to her now, though most of them continue to glance back to Harry.

“Well, we all know why we’re here. Harry had the idea—” Harry glares at her pointedly, “—sorry, _I_ had the idea that anyone who wanted to properly study Defence Against the Dark Arts—and yes, properly, not this Umbridge rubbish, because no one can call that _Defence_ against anything—” (“Hear, hear,” says Anthony Goldstein) “—I thought it would be best if we, well, took matters into our own hands.” Everyone looks from her to Harry as she too glances down at him. “And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just in theory—”

“But I bet you want to pass your OWLs, don’t you?” says Michael Corner.

“Of course,” Hermione replies immediately, “but more than that, I want us to be properly trained in defence because… Because…” She takes a breath and exhales it harshly. “Because Lord Voldemort is back. That’s why.”

Their reaction is predictable. Cho’s friend squeaks and spills her drink. Several people twitch or flinch, Padma shudders, and Neville gives a small yelp that he manages to turn into a cough. All of them, however, are back to watching Harry eagerly. Some even look to Cedric.

“What’s the proof he’s back?” says the blonde Hufflepuff quidditch player, somewhat aggressively. 

“Dumbledore told us—” Hermione begins.

“You mean, Dumbledore believes _them,”_ he says, nodding to Harry and Cedric.

“And who are _you?”_ Ron asks.

“Zacharias Smith,” the boy responds. “And I think we have every right to know why they keep saying it.”

“Look,” Hermione begins again, looking annoyed. Harry lifts a hand off the table to stop her.

“It’s okay, Hermione,” he says, “it’s what they’re here for.” He looks out over all of them, rising to stand next to her as he does. Cedric gives him a small nod and a smile.

“You want to know what makes me say You-Know-Who’s back? Voldemort?” he asks, holding Smith’s arrogant stare. “Because when we were in that maze, Cedric and I, looking at the cup, I said ‘Together. We’ll take it together.’ And it was the biggest mistake of my life.” People flinch again, surprised, and he barrels on. 

“Nobody should have touched that cup. At all. It was a portkey set up by Death Eater Barty Crouch Junior, disguised as our Defence Professor. It took us to a graveyard, where, by no coincidence, the grave of Voldemort Senior lay in wait. Voldemort was there, weak and helped by the man who betrayed my parents. And no, I know some of you may have heard that was Sirius Black, but it wasn’t. It was a man called Peter Pettigrew, and he tried to kill us both.

“Your terrible Dark Lord, whole again with _my blood,_ rose straight out of a goddamn cauldron in front of us. The only reason we got back was because we still had the portkey and Cedric had kept it close by.” Harry surveys the stunned silence with dark satisfaction. “Is this what it takes to get you to believe me? Is this what you wanted to hear? The worst experience of my life so far?”

“Pettigrew tried to kill me that night with the Killing Curse,” Cedric says, loudly into the creaking air. “Harry stunned me, and it missed. That’s the only reason I’m alive.”

Cho winds her arms around one of his and hugs him close, expression pained and relieved all at once.

“So,” Hermione says shakily. He hadn’t told her all of what happened, of course, and he hasn’t told them now, but it’s enough. Enough to shut Zacharias Smith up, at least. “So, like I was saying. We need to learn how to defend ourselves. We’re going to have to work out how, where we can do it, how often we can—”

“Is it true?” interrupts a girl with a long ginger plait. “Is it true that you can produce a patronus?”

A murmur of interest rattles through the group as Harry blinks. “Er, yeah, I can.”

“He sent one at Malfoy’s lot in third year when they were pretending to be dementors on the quidditch pitch,” Ron snickers.

“A corporeal patronus?” the girl asks. Harry frowns, recognising the phrase.

“You don’t happen to know Madam Amelia Bones, do you?”

The girl smiles. “She’s my auntie, I’m Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing earlier, so is it really true that you can produce one? That it’s a stag?”

“Yes,” Harry says, mouth twitching towards a grateful smile.

“Blimey, Harry!” Lee blurts. “I never knew that!”

“Mum told Ronnie not to spread it around,” Fred grins to Harry. “Said you got enough attention as-is.”

George grins at him too, and Harry bites down on his own smile. “She’s not wrong.”

“He killed a basilisk in his second year,” Cedric adds.

“With that sword in Dumbledore’s office?” asks Terry Boot. “One of the portraits told me that last year!”

“Er, yeah, that too.”

“That’s Gryffindor’s sword!” says someone around the back, and Harry startles.

“In our first year,” Neville says proudly, “he saved that Philological Stone—”

“Philosopher’s,” Hermione murmurs. 

“Er—Philosopher’s Stone—from You-Know-Who when he was controlling Quirrel!”

“And that’s not to mention,” says Cho, “all the tasks he had to beat in the tournament last year!”

“Dragons, mermaids, drowning, sphinxes, giant spiders, You-Know-Who,” says George, listing them off on his fingers. “Oh, and rescuing our idiot brother.”

Harry is blushing again, he just knows it. If the praise from his friends didn’t do it, the rapt interest of the gathered group definitely would. 

“Look,” he says, abashed. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be modest, but I had a lot of help with all of these things—”

“Not with that dragon you didn’t,” says Michael Corner. “That was a seriously cool bit of flying…” 

“Well—”

“And nobody helped you with those dementors,” says Susan Bones.

“You killed the basilisk yourself, even if someone gave you the sword.”

“I got stabbed for it,” Harry grumbles. “Fawkes had to save me.”

“You got stabbed with basilisk venom—?”

“Holy shit—”

“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us this stuff then?” pipes up bloody Zacharias Smith.

“Here’s an idea,” snaps Ron, possibly affected by the ‘weasel’ comment, “you shut your goddamn mouth.”

Smith flushes but maintains his haughty expression. “Well, we’ve all turned up to learn from him and now he’s telling us he can’t do any of it.”

“That’s not what he said,” Fred snarls. 

“Would you like us to clean your ears out?” George asks, withdrawing a long, lethal-looking metal instrument from his robes and toying with it casually. “Or any part of your body, really. I’m not exactly fussy where I stick this.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione says hurriedly, letting Harry sit down again and hide his embarrassment. “We’ve all agreed that we want to take lessons from Harry, yes?”

There’s a murmur of assent through the room and many nods. She beams.

######  _\- x -_

“These will be great for stunning!” says Ron, prodding the cushions with his foot and a gratefulness that speaks his history of unlucky fourth-year stunning falls.

“Just look at all these books! Harry this is wonderful, we have everything we need!” Hermione squeaks, running a finger over half the spines on the shelf before selecting one and promptly falling into a cushion to read.

There’s a knock at the door signalling the arrival of Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati and Dean. They all gaze around the room, heavily impressed, but by the time Harry’s halfway through explaining it to them more people have arrived, so he gives up and waits for everyone to join.

“Well,” Harry greets them nervously, “this is the place we found for practise. You all, er, found it okay.”

“It’s brilliant!” says Cho.

“It’s bizarre,” says Fred. “We hid in here once, didn’t we George? From Filch. It was just a broom cupboard then.”

“What are those?” Dean asks, pointing to the instruments at the back of the room.

“Dark detectors,” Harry replies, wandering up to them. “In short, they tell you when dark wizards or enemies are around. You don’t want to rely on them too much because they can be fooled.” Shadowy things are moving about in the foe-glass, but nothing recognisable. He stares for maybe a second more before turning his back on it. 

“So, I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we ought to do first and, er—Hermione?”

“We need a name,” she says brightly, lowering her hand. “It’ll encourage a feeling of team spirit and cooperation, don’t you think?”

“Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?” Angelina suggests hopefully.

“Or the Ministry are Morons Group?” asks Fred.

“I was thinking something less likely to broadcast what we’re doing to the world,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes.

“The Defence Association?” says Cho. “It can be the DA for short, and then no one will know.”

“DA’s good!” Ginny chirps. “Though it could be Dumbledore’s Army, seeing as that’s the Ministry’s biggest fear! That’ll show ’em!” There’s a good deal of laughter and chatter at her suggestion, and Harry smiles.

“But wouldn’t that be a problem if someone found out?” says Susan Bones. “They’ll use it against Dumbledore right away—they might even put him in Azkaban!” The laughter quickly peters out to concerned whispering.

“How about we call it the DA and have it secretly be both?” Hermione suggests, already taking out her parchment of signatures. “All in favour? Gosh, that’s a majority…” She grins and scrawls the letters across the top, trotting over to the standing tri-fold mirror where Harry’s pinned a few articles on Azkaban detainees.

“Brilliant,” Harry says once she’s sat down. “Right, shall we get to it? I was thinking that we might need to start from the basics, make sure we can get those nice and strong for our foundation. The first thing we can do is get ourselves friendly with something reliable—you know, the disarming charm. It sounds very basic but it’s pretty much saved my skin—”

“Oh _please,”_ says Zacharius Smith, looking to the heavens and folding his arms. “I don’t think a little _expelliarmus_ is going to help us defeat You-Know-Who, do you?”

Harry tilts his head, smiling a little. “I’ve used it against him,” he says quietly. “When we duelled back in June.”

The room tilts in the heavy silence that follows. Harry feels off-balance, suddenly, and out of place.

“It’s more useful than you think,” says Cedric. 

“Thank you,” Harry says. “But if you think it’s beneath you, Smith, you can leave.”

Smith, satisfyingly, doesn’t move.

“Okay,” he continues, unpocketing his wand. “I expect you all know this one, but anyway. It’s like this.” Harry turns to a pillar, points his wand at it, and says very clearly, _“Expelliarmus!”_

The jet of reddish light flies from his wandtip and crackles against the concrete, splashing like a glob of water over its surface.

“Okay, now you can all divide into pairs and we’ll see how we go…” 

He laughs, half an hour later, when Fred and George are still intermittently targeting Smith from random points around the room.

“Some might even say, Harry,” shouts Fred before he leaves, “that your charm is terribly _disarming!”_

“Will you shut up?” comes the muffled voice of George outside. Harry has to hide his face in his hands just to avoid Hermione’s odd looks.

######  _\- x -_

The basket glints and gleams in the candlelight of the room.

“You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?” Hermione says, holding one up. “Usually they refer to the goblin who cast them. These aren’t real galleons, though, so we’re going to use them to reflect the time and date of our next meeting. The coins will heat up when something changes, so hopefully you’ll all feel it when you’re carrying them. They’re also a bit like a badge. I’ve put a Protean charm on them, so we’ll take one each, and when Harry changes the times on _his_ coin, the others should all change to mimic it.”

When she’s met with the wide, blank stare of the rest of the DA members, she deflates slightly. 

“I thought it was a good idea…” she says. “I thought that if Umbridge asked us to turn out our pockets it’d be less conspicuous, but…”

“You can do a Protean charm?” asks a gaping Terry Boot.

“Oh,” she says, “yes.”

“But that’s NEWT level stuff, that is.”

Hermione flushes and looks down at the floor. “Erm—yes, I suppose so.”

“How come you’re not in Ravenclaw? With a brain like yours, anyone would think it!”

“The Sorting Hat did consider it!” she tells him brightly. “Does this mean we’re using the galleons?”

A murmur of excitement washes through the group as they step up to her, grinning and examining the coins as Hermione gives them out.

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Ron says. “How’d you think of that?”

“Just an idea I had,” she smiles. “I was rather intrigued by what Harry said about the Death Eaters’ marks.”

“I was going to say,” Harry mutters. “I prefer your approach, though.”

Ron looks between Hermione and the basket, shoving his hands in his pocket and doing the shifty-casual thing that never fails to make her suspicious.

“Hermione,” he says, “do you think you’d be able to do any more of those?”

“Well I don’t see why not,” she replies slowly, eyebrows rising as she looks at him. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking it would be great if we had a way to talk when we were in separate places—you know, like during the holidays or when you’re in the library. Just in case we need to get hold of each other.”

“That sounds great,” Harry agrees, eyeing her hopefully. She smiles, handing out the last coin to Cedric. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, ’Mione.”

“Have I ever told you how brilliant you are?”

“Yes, Ron, but only when you want something.”

Several days later she hands them each a fake silver sickle with malleable inscriptions.

######  _\- x -_

“Don’t let Ron see what’s on those Slytherins’ badges,” Hermione hisses, looking furious. Harry looks at her in askance, but she shakes her head, clearing her expression to a shaky hopefulness as Ron ambles over, looking very much lost and like he’s about to be sick. Harry isn’t too far off himself.

“Good luck, Ron,” Hermione says, pushing up onto her toes and kissing him on the cheek. “And you, Harry. Do your best!”

Ron walks with Harry into the Entrance Hall. He blinks rapidly and looks a little less sick, though he presses his fingers to the cheek Hermione had kissed in wonder. Harry smiles slightly and uses his distraction to look around them. The nearest Slytherins sneer and jeer as they pass, and Harry only just manages to make out the words etched into the shiny silver crown-shaped badges.

_Weasley is our King_

With a new anxiety settling like a very unpleasant stone in his stomach, Harry hurries Ron out to the pitch and into the changing rooms. Even Fred and George know well enough to leave off them for the moment, though they very much look like they’d enjoy nothing better than ripping the piss out of their brother. Harry gives them a look and they clap him on both shoulders.

“We’ll knock Malfoy off his broom this time, just you wait.”

######  _\- x -_

Fred’s arms are still crushing Harry’s shoulders in celebration when he catches onto the venom Malfoy’s spitting several feet away. 

“—we couldn’t fit in _useless loser_ either, for his father, you know—”

“Leave it!” Angelina shouts, taking a firm hold of Fred’s arm. “Leave it, Fred, let him yell! He’s just some sore, jumped-up little—” 

“But you like the Weasleys, don’t you Potter?” Malfoy continues, sneering gleefully. “Spend holidays there and everything! Can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by muggles—”

Harry leaps forward to grab hold of George. Angelina and Alicia have wrapped themselves around each of Fred’s arms and are keeping him in place, but only barely. Malfoy laughs loudly, and he sounds unhinged. Madam Hooch is still offside berating Crabbe for his illegal bludger attacks, but she’s glancing their way.

“Or perhaps,” says Malfoy, backing away tauntingly, “you remember the smell of you mother’s old house, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of—”

Harry isn’t aware of releasing George. He isn’t aware of anything, much, other than that the both of them are sprinting across the field towards Malfoy, and that all he wants is to cause the little shit as much pain as possible before someone stops him. Neither of them bother drawing their wands; Harry pulls back his arm in the way he knows Dudley always liked best and sinks his fist right into the pit of Malfoy’s stomach.

“Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! _NO!”_

The girls are screaming, almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd. Harry can hear Malfoy yelling, feel him try to push back with George swearing loudly next to Harry’s ear, and somewhere around them a whistle is piercing horribly through the air. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t let up his barrage of punches until someone yells out, _“Impedimenta!”_ and the three of them fly apart like an electrical discharge.

 _“What do you think you’re doing?!”_ screeches Madam Hooch. Her wand is out in one hand and her whistle in the other, and Harry leaps to his feet. Malfoy is in a bloodied heap on the grass, groaning and beginning to curl in on himself. George is breathing heavily beside Harry, lip split and eyes furious. Fred is being held down by all three chasers, and Ron, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen.

“Never have I seen behaviour like that!” Hooch screams. “Back to the castle, both of you, and straight to your Head of House’s office! _Now!”_

Harry and George turn on their heels and march straight off the pitch. The jeering of the crowd dies a slow death behind them, quieting only once they’re stamping up the stone steps to the Entrance Hall. As they walk, Harry becomes gradually aware of the snitch still clutched in his fist and its struggling wings between his fingers.

They barely reach McGonagall’s office before she comes stalking furiously down the corridor behind them, slamming open her door with a flick of her hand and throwing her scarf over the back of her chair. She rounds her desk and slams her hands down on its surface.

“Well?” she says, quivering with rage. “I have _never_ seen such a disgraceful exhibition! Two on one! Explain yourselves!”

“Malfoy was provoking us,” Harry says shortly.

“Provoking you? Of course he was!” she shouts. “He’d just lost, hadn’t he! But what on earth could he have said to justify what you two—”

“He insulted my parents,” George snarls. _“And_ Harry’s mother!”

“Their whole family!” Harry adds. “He—”

“And instead of leaving him to Madam Hooch, you two decided you’d go and show him how to duel like a muggle, did you?” McGonagall bellows. “Have you _any_ idea—”

 _“Hem, hem,”_ comes that dreaded fake cough from behind them, and they all wheel around to glare. “May I help, Professor McGonagall?” Umbridge, in her toady green cloak, asks.

“Help?” McGonagall repeats, flushing with fury. “What do you mean, _help?_ I am _perfectly_ capable of—”

“Why, I thought you might be grateful for the little extra authority,” says Umbridge in her sickening sweetness.

“You thought wrong,” Professor McGonagall replies. Her tone is dangerously low. “Now, you two better listen closely. I don’t care what Malfoy told you, I do not care to what level he insulted you, you are going to sit a week of detentions with me—and don’t give me that look, Potter—”

 _“Hem, hem,”_ comes Umbridge again, and McGonagall closes her eyes briefly as if restraining herself from something inadvisable. “I believe they ought to get something a little more severe than that.”

“What,” demands McGonagall, “like slicing open Potter’s hands every night with that _disgusting_ method of yours?!”

“Oh dear, Minerva, are you questioning my practises?”

“We’ll question it all right when Harry comes back to us bleeding out on the carpet!” George snaps.

“Detention, Mr Weasley,” Umbridge says easily. “Another week, with me.”

“No,” Harry says, stepping between her and George and flinging out an arm. “Give it to me, not him.”

Her eyes narrow with an evil satisfaction. “I don’t think so, Mr Potter. Didn’t I tell you that _punishment_ is meant for you to suffer?”

“If it’s me you want to suffer then give it to _me!”_ Harry demands, even though McGonagall is desperately trying to signal him to stop. He is distinctly aware that those are not the words Umbridge had previously used, but he doesn’t give a single toss.

“I would watch your mouth, Mr Potter, before you add another week onto Mr Weasley’s detentions.”

Harry glares at her furiously and chews at the inside of his lip, despising the way his eyes begin to sting and water.

“Anyway, _Minerva,_ I think you’ll find this very interesting.” Umbridge digs around in her ridiculous pink handbag. “Now, where is it? Cornelius just sent it through… I mean,” she gives a false little laugh, “the _Minister_ just sent it… Ah, yes, here.” 

Umbridge pulls out a long piece of parchment that unfurls with a tug at its pristine red ribbon. _“Hem, hem…_ Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five!”

“Not another one!” exclaims McGonagall with dwindling patience.

“Well yes,” Umbridge says, holding her smile in place. “As a matter of fact, Minerva, it was you who alerted me to its necessity! When you went to Dumbledore to ensure the continuation of the Gryffindor team, well I couldn’t have that, and the Minister quite agrees that the High Inquisitor ought to have the power to strip pupils of their privileges or she, I, would have less authority than common teachers! And look—I was right to try to stop them, dreadful tempers…”

Harry and George bristle, though McGonagall’s hands on their shoulders keep them grounded.

“Ah yes, the announcement… _Hem, hem,_ ‘The High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishment, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions and removal of privileges as may have been ordered by other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc., etc.’”

She rolls up the parchment and places it primly back inside her handbag, smugger than ever. “So… I really think we should ban these two from playing quidditch ever again,” she says, looking from Harry to George and back again.

“Ban us?” Harry asks faintly. The snitch flutters in his hand. “Ever again?”

“Yes, Mr Potter, I think a lifelong ban should do the trick. You _and_ Mr Weasley, and, I think, his twin should be stopped too. If his teammates had not restrained him, I feel sure he would have attacked young Mr Malfoy as well. I will have your broomsticks confiscated, of course, and have them kept in my office so I am sure there is no violation of my ban.” She turns to Professor McGonagall, who is just as shocked and livid as either of them. “I am not unreasonable, Minerva,” she has the gall to say. “I shall allow the rest of the team to keep playing, as I saw no violence from any of _them._ Well, a good afternoon to you all…”

Umbridge turns and leaves the room with a pervading sense of utmost satisfaction.

“She can’t do that,” Harry says. It comes out as less than a whisper. “She…” 

“She can,” George says hoarsely. “The Malfoys have the Ministry eating out of their hands… That fu—”

“I am sorry, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley,” Professor McGonagall interrupts. “I feel that I have not helped your case.”

“It’s not your fault, Professor,” Harry chokes. The wateriness of his eyes spills over before he can stop it and he turns away from her. George stands in front of him and lies a hand over his arm, but Harry can’t bear to look up. After a long moment of shaky, uncontrollable breathing, he pulls Harry into his chest and hugs him. Harry hides in the shoulder of his robes and lets his quiet tears soak into them, where no one can see.

“It’s not fair,” George croaks above him. “It’s not, but you remember what Hermione said.”

Harry nods, sniffing, and steps back a half-pace to wipe roughly at his face with his sleeve. George must say something to McGonagall before they leave because she looks at them with terrible worry as she closes her door, but Harry doesn’t care. All that he really knows is the warmth of the snitch in one hand and George’s hand in the other, and the ringing of disbelief deafening his ears. They walk slowly back to the common room, all the while Harry stares at the floor and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

Voices echo down the corridor ahead and George nudges him, pushing them into the alcove behind a nearby suit of armour. Harry knocks his shoulder into the wall and slides down it, folding his knees into his chest when he sits heavily on the floor. George lowers himself down at his side and sits mutely, just as stupefied. Harry holds the snitch out in front of him and tilts it under the dim sunlight. Reflections glance off it and onto the walls, surrounding them with streaks of gold.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. George pushes his arm between Harry’s back and the wall and pulls him over to lean against his side.

“Don’t apologise.”

Harry lets his head drop down onto George’s shoulder, closing his eyes when he feels George’s cheek rest in his hair. His breaths send little flickers of hair over Harry’s forehead, waving about in the draft. His warmth seeps, familiar, through Harry’s robes.

They sit there until they’re almost asleep and neither of them can feel their arses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bit about moonstone is bs I made up on the spot because the wiki was empty


	8. Fifth Year, III

Harry digs around in his trunk for spare socks. Amidst the mess of old and unfinished books, his fingers brush the unusual texture of a wrapped paper parcel somewhere near the bottom. He pulls it out, frowning, and then gasps with realisation—Sirius’ parting gift.

He sits at the edge of his bed and tugs the paper away. A small, square mirror slides into his palm, looking very old and certainly quite dirty. Its surface is clear and polished, however, and reflects his own face back at him perfectly. He turns the mirror over and finds, stuck to it, a scribbled note from Sirius.

_ This is a two-way mirror, I’ve got the other one of the pair. If you need to speak to me or Moony, just say my name into it. You’ll appear in my mirror and we’ll be able to talk in yours. James and I used them when we were in separate detentions. Good luck, we love you. _

Harry’s heart races. He’s alone in the dorm save for Trevor the toad, whom he doubts would tell on him. He holds the mirror up to his face and says clearly, “Sirius!”

He waits one second, two seconds, and then his own reflection is replaced with a startling close-up of Sirius’ face. 

“Hello, Harry!” he says happily, beaming. Harry laughs in mild disbelief.

“Sirius!”

“I see you’ve finally decided to give me a shout. Is there anything you need?”

Harry shakes his head slightly. “Sorry I forgot, I only just found this in my trunk. Is it secure? Umbridge can’t—?”

Sirius chuckles. “It’s safe, Harry, she can’t find me here.”

“That’s good,” Harry says, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. “How are you?”

“Not terrible,” Sirius says. “Remus is back. Would you like to say hello?”

“Only if he’s not busy.”

“Remus! It’s Harry!”

“What?” calls a worried voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Says he’s just popped in to say hello,” Sirius grins, holding the mirror at arm’s length to fit them both in. Remus appears looking haggard but happy, smiling widely at the sight of Harry. He taps the mirror with his wand and, although Sirius lowers his hand, it hovers steadily in place.

“Harry,” Remus says. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” Harry says. “Did you hear about Umbridge kicking us off the team?”

It takes Harry all of five minutes to explain what happened, but it’s so heavily interspersed with his angry outbursts that he talks for thrice as long. They listen through the whole thing, Sirius agreeing heartily, (“No, Remus, I think I’ll call her however I like in front of Harry!”) and Remus asking kindly after their welfare.

“Ron’s shaken,” Harry says glumly. “He wasn’t very confident in the first place. He said Katie Bell went to cheer him up, though.”

“I’m sure he’ll work it up over time,” Remus assures him. “After all, it sounds like you have wonderful teammates.”

“Yeah…” Harry says, trailing off a bit. He runs his teeth over his lip again, letting them catch in the cracks and splits uncaringly. 

“Harry?” 

“Sirius,” he begins quietly, inhaling a deep breath. “Do you remember what we were talking about during the summer? When you asked me if… If it was to do with Ron?”

“Hmm?” Sirius says, frowning slightly. “Ron… Oh! When I asked if you fancied Ron!”

“Yes, well, the answer’s still no,” Harry says quickly, feeling the blood running to his cheeks.   
Remus hums, amused. “Is this about George, then? George Weasley?”

Harry slaps the hand not holding the mirror to his face. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Because you love us?” Sirius suggests.

“Yes, it’s about George,” he says instead. “How did you know?”

Remus smirks and taps a finger to his temple. “Because I have eyes, Harry.”

“Am I really that obvious?” Harry mutters, beginning to will his own death.

“Really?” Sirius asks, but it’s directed at Remus.

“Yes,  _ really _ I have eyes,” Remus huffs, trying not to laugh.

“No! I mean, I didn’t realise!”

“That’s because you were too busy sulking. Anyway, Harry, is there anything we can help you with?”

Harry’s arm is aching, so he fishes his wand awkwardly out of his trouser pocket and wordlessly sends his own mirror hovering two feet in front of his face. 

“I just… I don’t know what to do. He’s Ron’s brother.”

“We know he is,” Sirius chuckles, “but you haven’t heard Molly talking about you and Ginny yet…”

“Ginny?” Harry asks, taken aback. “But she’s dating Michael Corner.”

“You know what Molly’s like,” Remus sighs. “But we’re not getting involved, we’re here for  _ you.” _

Harry sighs too, pulling his heels up onto the bedframe and balancing his head on his folded arms. “When Umbridge kicked us off the team he was trying to comfort me,” he says.  _ “I know, _ I know it sounds stupid, but he let me… He sat outside the common room with me on the floor just—just leaning against each other. He’s tactile. More than Fred. More than anyone except Ron and Hermione, really… I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what to do…”

“I’d say that’s a good sign,” Remus says kindly, smiling. “He cares about you, at any rate.”

“But—!” Harry whines. “It’s like, I’m his little brother’s friend, right? It’s embarrassing!”

“I don’t think he’d mind.”

“He’d probably be flattered,” Sirius scoffs. “You’re not exactly—oof!” Remus elbows him in the ribs and Harry laughs.

“Fred keeps making jokes about me having a crush on Bill,” he says. “I don’t know whether Molly believed him, which is a little worrying.”

“I don’t think she took it too seriously,” Remus laughs. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry says. “Sorry for calling to talk about stupid stuff.”

“It’s not stupid,” Remus tells him. “We’ve missed out on a decade of these kinds of conversations, we’re honoured to have the privilege now.” Harry nods, pressing his mouth into his arm.

“So,” Sirius grins, “tell us about George then, and why he’s so good.”

“Oh no,” Harry groans, hiding his face. “It kind of… We’re friends, we’re on the quidditch team together—or were… And at the World Cup… He keeps standing up for me—us. He helped me in the tournament last year. He’s… He…”

“Go on, Harry,” Sirius prompts with tangible amusement. “Do tell!”

“He danced with me at the ball,” Harry mumbles.

“Did he? How very sweet!”

Harry looks up at them to find them both grinning broadly. 

“Did you ever hear rumours of invisible mistletoe?”

Sirius, somehow, lights up further. “Oh, those! Marlene swore up and down she found one when she was sneaking around with your mum in our sixth year! We put some up ourselves, didn’t we?”

“Did you leave one outside the Gryffindor common room by any chance?” Harry grumbles.

“They all disappeared after a couple of days,” Remus says. “Did you get caught?”

_“Yes,”_ Harry says, hiding his face in his arms again. “No one was around to save us, either. It was so embarrassing.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it over the summer, Prongslet,” Sirius snickers. “Everyone knows that Blacks are the best for gossip.”

“Why did I say anything?” Harry groans again. 

The door swings open, and Harry jerks up to see. It’s only Ron. He relaxes easily, gesturing him over with a tilt of his head.

“What’s up?” Ron asks. “What’s the—?”

“I’m talking to Sirius and Remus,” Harry tells him. “Sirius gave this to me, I found it in my trunk.”

“Woah, that’s cool,” Ron says, propping himself next to Harry on the edge of his bed. “Hey.”

“Hello, Ron,” says Remus. “Good to see you.”

“Harry here was just telling us about his—argh, Remus!” 

“Sirius!” Harry says, now burying his face in his hands. 

“What?” Ron asks, looking between them oddly. “Oh,” he says. “Oh… Right. Well, how’s London?”

“Cold,” Remus says. “We’ve been doing lots of night work.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Harry asks. “Are we keeping you up?”

“No, no. It seems I need to supervise this one, anyway.”

“Hey,” Sirius protests. “Oh, Ron, we heard you made Gryffindor keeper—well done!”

“Thank you!” Ron says, the tops of his ears going as warm as Harry’s face feels. “Er—Harry, I came to tell you that Hermione said she’ll look over our Potions…”

“Oh, right,” Harry says. “Brilliant. Sirius, Remus, is it all right if I…”

“Go on,” Sirius says, “don’t give old Snape any reason to pick on you. Call me whenever, I’ll be here!”

“Have fun, Harry, we’ll see you soon I’m sure,” Remus tells them. “And be brave. Your instincts have done you well so far.”

“Thank you,” Harry smiles, taking the mirror from the air. “I’ll try.”

“Remember we love you! Molly would send her best if she knew!”

“Finite,” Remus says, and the mirror clears.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry arrives early for the last DA meeting of the term. He stares up at Dobby’s new decorations and sighs, immediately setting to work on getting them down. He levitates most of the awful Harry baubles off the chandelier before he vanishes them, but vanishes the banner straight off the wall the instant he sees it. 

He glances to the small basket of protean galleons on the bookshelf. It’s been slowly depleted over the last few weeks, galleon by galleon, as a growing number of (trusted) people have been signing up. They now have all of Gryffindor fifth year, excepting Seamus, and the majority of the rest of the house. A surprising number of Ravenclaws have signed up, along with all of Hufflepuff fifth year. And, perhaps most surprisingly, Slytherins Theodore Nott and Daphne and Astoria Greengrass.

Harry had taken one look at Nott, and the genuine look of interest and eagerness on his face, and had almost forgotten all of his fears about his being the son of a Death Eater. He seems to be friends with Neville, anyway.

He wanders over to the standing mirror in the corner of the already-mirrored room, debating briefly whether or not he could fit in a call to Sirius. Deciding that it’s a terrible idea, he instead turns his attention to the papers pinned and stuck to the frame and glass, running his fingers over their edges. The left third of the mirror is peppered with articles from both Daily Prophet and Quibbler, for Luna, about old known Death Eaters, still alive and captured in Azkaban. Dozens of scarred, gaunt faces scream and growl silently out of them. Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov, Mulciber, Travers…

The right third is much nicer and much more crowded; it’s almost completely plastered with both muggle and wizarding photographs. Right at the top, beside the pinned list of DA members, is the photograph Sirius had given Harry back in Grimmauld Place. His and Neville’s parents, Sirius, Remus, the Prewetts and the rest wave out at them eagerly, encouraging. Underneath that the room has grown its own collection of peoples’ photos, copied off nightstands and albums or, what looks like, taken in the room itself. Quite possibly  _ by the Room. _ There are pictures of the Weasleys, of course, several of Molly and Arthur and Bill and Charlie with some unknown friends, and even one tentative one with Percy. There are pictures of the Longbottoms, the Abbotts, the Diggorys, the Patils, the Creeveys… Most everyone. Beneath and dotted between those are newer ones, ones of Angelina and Alicia trading stunners, ones of Susan conjuring a blinding swarm of yellow butterflies, ones of Ginny disarming a distracted Dean. Hermione giggling to herself behind a book. Cho kissing Cedric quickly behind a pillar.

“This is lovely,” says Luna from behind him. Harry turns so quickly he almost falls over.

“Yeah?” he asks, and then sees where she’s staring around at the tinsel, glittery trinkets and the non-Harry baubles. “Yeah, it is. Dobby put them up.”

“Be careful to look out for nargles,” she warns. “They like to hide in the Christmas greenery.”

“Thanks Luna,” he says. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

She giggles. “It’s a funny expression, that.”

Angelina, Katie and Alicia burst in then, looking chilly and breathless and very pleased to be inside. They shed their cloaks and throw them at the wall where coat pegs materialise beneath them.

“Well,” Angelina says, “we’ve finally replaced you.”

“Replaced me?” Harry asks.

“You, Fred and George. We’ve got our new seeker!”

“Oh, who?” 

“Ginny Weasley,” says Katie. Harry gapes.

“Yeah, she’s pretty damn good,” Angelina says. “Nothing on you, of course, but quick as a whip. Be better as a chaser, really, but since we can’t have you…” She gives him a wry look of disappointment.

“Hey,” he mutters, “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” she sighs. “I’m sorry too.”

“What about the beaters, then?”

“Andrew Kirke and Jack Sloper,” Alicia says without a single shred of excitement. “Neither are brilliant, but compared to the other idiots that turned up…”

“Hermione could have done better,” Katie grumbles.

Harry winces. “Yikes.”

“Did someone say my name?” Hermione asks, whirling in through the door in a bright bubble of excitement. Ron and Neville follow her inside, thankfully bringing their depressing conversation to its swift end.

“Okay,” Harry says as soon his usual crowd assembles. “Since it’s the end of term, I thought we’d have a good look at everything we’ve done, consolidate some of that in a dynamic way. It’s the last meeting before a good three-week break, so there’s no real point in starting anything new—”

“We’re not doing anything new?” says Zacharias Smith in a disgruntled whisper that carries easily across the room. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have bothered coming.”

“We’re all very sorry that Harry didn’t tell you, then,” Fred says loudly, to the snickers of everyone else. George laughs and holds his fist out for his brother to hit likewise, biting his lip in that way that never fails to make Harry’s stomach swoop.

“I think we can get into a wide circle here—keep the cushions round the edges, Colin—and don’t worry about standing under those half-column things, they’re not going to fall on you.” Harry pushes them out until they’re all several feet apart, facing the middle. He drags in a masked metal practise dummy and stands it in front of his own gap in the circle before taking his place.

“When I attack this,” he says, “it’s going to be thrown backwards to one of you. I want you to hit it with what you’ve learnt in the past few weeks to bounce it off to someone else. For everyone watching, you need to  _ stay alert; _ a spell could go rogue at any time, but you should be more than able to deflect them!”

He looks around, making sure he sees nods or smiles from every single one of them before he starts. He levels his wand at the fake Death Eater.

_ “Depulso,” _ he says, and pushes it gently away. It wheels over to the other side of the circle, where Luna says,  _ “Stupefy!” _ and pushes it towards Padma. 

_ “Expelliarmus!” _ she cries, and the fake wand flies from its hand as it falls back. The ring devolves into fun, unspoken silly things, like who can make the most impressive show of it, or who can make it spin around the most times. Harry wanders behind them all, correcting postures or wand movements.

“Faster, now!” he calls, and isn’t surprised when they start getting stray spells. “Come on, wand arm out and ready, Boot! Corner, stop watching other people! Dunbar! Eyes open!”

To Harry’s delight, they actually seem to be enjoying themselves. Their aiming gets better, and their friendly batting of the dummy at each other seems to be raising morale. He skips this way and that, avoiding a certain George Weasley for a childish spell in the first ten minutes under the pretense of not letting himself get distracted.

_ “Ventus!” _ says Mandy Brocklehurst, sending the dummy careening towards Ginny.

_ “Reducto!” _ she shouts as it approaches overzealously. The spell blasts it backwards, and it disintegrates completely. 

Everyone stares down at the pile of metal filings sinking slowly through the grates in the floor. Harry starts clapping, impressed. Everyone seems to follow suit, Dennis Creevey even jumping up and down in excitement.

“Brilliant!” Harry calls. “All of you, brilliant work! Take a break while I find something else for us to blast!” Even as he speaks, more of the fake Death Eaters line themselves up along one of the walls. He catches the movement in the chipped, clouding mirrors to his left and is inspired with a sudden idea.

When he next calls them over, five minutes later, he gets them to stand in a line across one half of the room.

“Next we’re going to practise individually. I want three people at a time to step up to this grate here,” he indicates with his foot, “and focus on the room in front of you. I’m going to send the dummies out without warning, and after you’ve hit three I’d like you to go back to the end of your queue. We’ll see how many times we can get through it tonight, okay?”

Zacharias Smith lets out a distinctively derisive snort. “How hard can this be?”

Harry grins and steps back into the shadow of a pillar, climbing the convenient new steps up to a convenient little ledge near the rafters of the room. He settles himself on it, making sure he can see everyone below.

“Edgecombe, Hermione and Fred, you go first!” he calls. They wander up to the grate—or rather, Fred saunters up to the grate—and stand watchfully.  _ “Fumos,” _ Harry whispers, wand pointed to the floor. His whole half of the room begins to blur ever so slightly with fog, at first so faint that the others don’t even notice. He starts sending out the dummies before they do, changing their shapes and sizes and cloaks as he sees fit. 

The first three ace theirs immediately, as expected, and Harry sees Smith grumbling sarcastically to himself. The fog is thickening now so that Dean and Ron are frowning around themselves, wondering if it’s not their eyes going funny. He calls them forward next with Parvati, and they’re at the back of the queue in moments. Neville, Luna, Justin, Colin, Astoria, and Lee follow, and by the time it’s Smith’s turn, the fog is so thick that even Harry above has a job making out the shadows. Smith eventually makes it through, but not without a fair bit of jeering first.

“All right, all right,” Harry says, cutting them off. “I think that’s enough of that. One more round of this and we’ll pack up.” Hermione grins at him from the floor and manages, just, to hit her three targets without missing. “Nice catch, George,” he says, once, when George stuns a dummy that had veered violently out from behind a pillar. George shows himself up by missing his next shot spectacularly, and someone—Lee—wolf whistles him.

Ron is exceptionally good, Harry’s pleased to note, and so is Ginny. Angelina, Alicia and Katie are fantastic shots, but Harry suspects five or so years of quidditch training can do that to a person. Cedric and Cho beat them out, but only because they’re seekers.

“Good work!” Harry calls once everyone’s done. He jogs lightly down the stairs and half-heartedly dispels the fog with a flick of his wand. The worst of it dissipates to nothing, but a rolling mist still crawls its way over the floor and tumbles into more of the room. He leaves it because it looks cool and it appeals to his childish want for senseless drama.

“All of you did some fantastic work today,” he tells them. “All of this practise is only going to help strengthen what you’ve learnt and help you prepare for whatever adventures may crop up in the real world, good or bad. Keep up with what you can over the holidays, and if you’re good I’ll even teach you how to produce a patronus.” An enthusiastic muttering rises from the gathered group. Harry’s still marvelling at how eager they are to learn from him. 

“That should be all for now! Get back to your dorms safely, and I wish you all a Merry Christmas and happy holidays!”

Hermione claps for him, then, copied quickly by Ron and the rest of the fifth-years, the Weasleys, and then the whole group. Someone whistles again, and Harry ducks his head to hide his grin. The noise level dips and rises as they break away to collect their belongings.

“Merry Christmas!” Cho and Cedric shout as they leave.

“Merry Christmas!” he replies, fussing around stacking the cushions in the corner just for something to do.

“We’ll see you back in the common room, Harry,” Hermione says from behind him. He turns around to ask her why, but stops when he sees her barely-contained, vibrating sort of excitement. His eyebrows jump in silent prompting, but she only smiles wider and tugs Ron towards the door. Ron shrugs and salutes him on their way out. 

Harry looks around the slowly emptying room and sees what she might be so excited about. Everyone must already know, he thinks, as they pretend not to glance around and grin at the back of George’s head while he stands, inconspicuously and casually by Harry’s mirror, twirling his wand.

Harry pauses, just for a moment, watching him.

Yeah. How could they  _ not _ know.

Fred catches his shoulder as he crosses the room and winks once again. It’s softer this time; more of a  _ good luck _ than a  _ told you so. _ By the lack of movement when the door closes behind him, Harry and George are left alone. He wanders over slowly, not wanting to break the rare quiet that’s fallen fragile over their shoulders. Dregs of mist still pour over the tops of his trainers as he moves.

“Just came to say hello to them,” George says, his small smile turned steadily towards the pictures on the glass. “We never knew our uncles. It’s nice to think we’re picking up their legacy.”

“They’d be proud,” Harry tells him quietly. “They all would.”

“It’s just funny, you know,” he says. “It’s not the first time we’ve joined a renegade student uprising.” Harry gapes at him. He grins. “Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”

“I think I’ll have to,” Harry snorts. “I’d love to know what that was about…” 

“Look,” George laughs suddenly, pointing to the startling images of twenty-somethings Remus and Sirius. “A sight for sore eyes, they are.”

Harry’s smile twitches up. They’re objectively very attractive, admittedly, even now they’ve become something like his pseudo-parents at thirty-odd. Photo-Sirius sneaks his arm around Remus’ waist and tugs him gently into his side to press a kiss behind his ear.

Harry reaches up and takes the DA sign up sheet off the mirror, opening his notebook and slipping it into the sleeve.

“You’re a very good teacher, Harry,” George says next, turning finally to meet Harry’s eyes. Harry is torn between wishing he hadn’t and wanting never to look away. His heart hides itself in his Adam’s apple and flutters furiously against his skin.

“Thank you,” he says through a dry mouth. “I wouldn’t be anything without Ron and Hermione.”

“Come on, you so would.” George grins and pokes Harry playfully in both of his shoulders. “You just have this…  _ thing, _ about you. Makes people listen. You’re a good teacher.”

Harry runs his teeth over his smile and looks away, lifting an absent hand to scratch the side of his face. “Thanks. I’m glad.”

George watches him carefully, tapping his wand against his palm and creating tiny orange sparks. “I think…” He stops. Sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I really like you, Harry.” 

All of the thought function beyond incoherency and noise in Harry’s mind crumbles instantly. He looks up again, but now George is looking down, still fiddling with his wand. 

“And, like, when I say I like you, I mean I  _ like _ you like you. The shouldn’t-be-embarrassing-but-it-is way. I know I’m Ron’s brother and all, but… It just kind of happened, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry croaks. “I know.”

George takes in a gentle breath and meets Harry’s gaze. His expression is so open, so quietly vulnerable that Harry’s heart begins to physically hurt the way it had last year, the way it had when—

“Last year, when we danced, I thought you were one of the most amazing things I’d ever seen,” George confides like a secret. “You were still sitting there, despite everything, despite everyone else out to get you, looking so handsome. And then you took my hand, and it didn’t quite feel real.”

“It didn’t feel real for me either,” Harry says faintly.

A small rustling flickers into focus above them, as something grows, unfurls above their heads. The both of them look up, and Harry thinks he really should stop being surprised by the Room already.

“Mistletoe,” George whispers. “Again.”

Harry’s heart is racing. He wets his lips and then dries them just as hurriedly, but George is looking at him again, and Harry’s reaching up to meet him.

“Probably full of nargles,” he murmurs. 

George bumps his nose against Harry’s and laughs quietly. “What the hell’s a nargle?” he asks.

“No idea,” Harry says, and kisses him.

It’s a lot like their first, but at the same time different in its entirety. Harry inhales sharply at the touch of their lips and pushes forwards, unwilling to let George go even if he tries to pull away again. He’s lucky, this time, because he seems to have no intentions of doing so, pressing back just as eagerly and reaching out to slip his hands around Harry’s waist. Harry opens his mouth and tilts his head, kissing George’s lips as sweetly and enthusiastically as he dares. George pulls them together at the hips and Harry’s hands rise slowly, one smoothing over George’s cheek and the other gripping tightly onto his collar. They even manage to keep his glasses out of the way.

This time they kiss for long, long seconds. They’re wonderful seconds, filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing and the movement of their lips against each other. They’re seconds that tick into minutes and maybe into hours, but even hours can never be long enough.

“I think I like you too,” Harry breathes against his mouth when they part so slightly.

“You think?” George asks on a high laugh, clutching him closer as it trembles through both of their chests.

“That’s what you told me,” Harry says, swallowing and trying not to shiver. George kisses from his lips across his cheek. 

“So I think I like you and you think you like me,” he murmurs. “Now, do you think you wanna go out with me?”

Harry grins, feeling the tension try to claw its way back into George’s arms and shoulders. “Why, George, I think I do.”

George surges forward to kiss him again in celebration, bending him back a touch and staggering them towards the haphazard pile of cushions. They fall over into them side by side, still clutching at clothing and reachable skin.

“Yeah,” Harry says, climbing over him to reach his mouth better. “I really really like you.”

“I really really like you too,” George replies, and tugs him down so that neither of them are talking anymore.

######  _ \- x - _

“You’re late,” Hermione says conversationally in the common room. She and Ron are sat silhouetted by the fireplace when he comes in, watching him approach with little twin smiles,

“Am I?” Harry asks, quite unable to keep his own grin off his face. “I don’t think I am.”

Hermione giggles and pushes out a squat footstool with a toe. He sits on it, looking up expectantly at his two best friends curled on the sofa.

“He came in whistling,” she whispers, even though they’re alone.

“I don’t think I’ve seen him do that before,” Ron says dazedly. “Except for when he’s really… well…  _ Really _ happy.”

Hermione giggles again and can’t seem to stop herself when she asks eagerly, “Did you kiss him?”

Harry hides his face in his hands as he laughs, giddy and utterly unable to keep a straight face. “It was the mistletoe again. The Room summoned it.  _ And _ we talked a bit, too.”

They both laugh with him until Ron chokes on air. “Wait,” he gasps, “what do you mean  _ again?” _

“Oh shit,” Harry mumbles. “I, uh…”

“Harry!” Hermione says. “You didn’t tell us? Go on, we’re here for you!”

Harry flushes bright red again. “Do you remember we danced at the ball last year?”

“How could I forget,” Ron says.

Hermione brightens. “Oh, you left together!”

Harry nods. “You know those invisible mistletoe things Seamus is intent on finding?”

“Oh Merlin, you’re not telling us they exist, are you?”

Harry hides in his arms again. “We got stuck under one outside the common room. But—but it was really quick! He just sort of did it and we carried on and that was it.”

Ron drops his head back against the sofa cushions. “Bloody hell, really? You sure kept that quiet… How’d you deal with it for a whole  _ year? _ Suspense would’ve driven me mad, I think.”

“Well, they were obviously both  _ worried _ about it,” Hermione hisses. “Harry’s your best friend, Ron, and George is your brother! They were probably feeling guilty enough about  _ that, _ while also feeling guilty about liking  _ men _ instead of women, while all the time continuing to like each other more and more and not knowing what to do about it! And not to mention, there’s hardly been a good time—”

“How can one person feel all of that at the same time and not just explode?” Ron asks.

Hermione scoffs. “Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, Ron, doesn’t mean everyone else has!”

Harry glances from her to Ron and back again. She stares back at Harry for a good moment before glancing to Ron herself and bursting into another fit of giggles. Harry and Ron inevitably end up giggling along with her, excitement bubbling over and into the comfy quiet of their tower.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry is shaking. Ron and McGonagall are by his side, supporting him, but his entire body trembles with it. Trembles with the shock of the blood, with the fear that it’s an effort to separate himself from the snake. 

A door opens above them on the dormitory stairs. “What’s going on? We heard—oh, Professor!”

“Wake your siblings, Mr Weasley,” says McGonagall. “We’ll be in Dumbledore’s office.”

Ron has one hand on Harry’s back and another on his arm. It hurts to take in the great gasping breaths that he needs so he settles for more frantic shallow ones as they lead him out of the common room and through the castle, McGonagall with her wand lit and held aloft in front of them.

“Fizzing Whizzbee,” she says to the stone gargoyle. It turns without protest, and they step onto the rising stone staircase. Professor McGonagall knocks thrice with the brass knocker and the rabble of voices behind the door silences immediately. The door swings open and she leads them inside.

“Ah, it’s you, Professor McGonagall… and… ah.” Dumbledore, seated at the tall chair behind his desk, still does not meet Harry’s eyes.

“It wasn’t a nightmare!” he insists, angry that Dumbledore still won’t take him seriously. “I  _ was _ asleep, but it was like I was there! It’s Mr Weasley, he’s been attacked by a giant snake!”

“How did you see this?” Dumbledore asks him.

“I don’t know!” he says. “Inside my head, maybe—?”

“You misunderstand me. I mean to say… Can you remember where you were, when you watched this happen? Were you perhaps standing beside the victim, or else looking down on the scene from above?”

Harry inhales shakily. “Neither… It was like I was the snake. I saw it all… Professor will you please just tell me what’s happening?”

Nobody speaks for an infuriatingly long moment. Harry can almost feel the ticking of each of Dumbledore’s instruments, feel the seconds slipping through their fingers as Mr Weasley bleeds out alone…

“Is Arthur seriously injured?” Dumbledore asks, looking now at Ron.

_ “Yes.” _ Harry snaps. 

Dumbledore stands suddenly enough to make them jump and addresses one of the sleeping portraits. “Everard! And you too, Dilys!” An old, sallow wizard with a short black fringe and the witch with long silver ringlets in the adjacent frame open their eyes immediately, unconcerned by the depth of the slumber they had most likely been faking. “You were listening?”

The wizard nods and the witch tells him, “Naturally.”

“The man has red hair and glasses,” Dumbledore says. “Everard, you will need to raise the alarm, make sure he is found by the right people.”

“Sir—” Harry says, but Dumbledore ignores him, turning next to a grumpy old wizard and sending him to Grimmauld Place. 

“We will need a warning,” he tells Fawkes, who disappears in a large flash of flame. 

Breathing is getting harder and a horrible, sharp anger is rising in Harry’s throat. There’s a knock on the door through which Ginny, Fred and George join Ron, hovering in a corner while Harry still stands, alone, in the middle of the floor. His shirt is soaked with sweat. His glasses are crooked and smudged. Dumbledore is pacing, still muttering to the portraits. The words _Voldemort,_ _guarding,_ _doesn’t look good,_ pass between them, and—

_ “LOOK AT ME!” _ he yells. Dumbledore’s head snaps around to him immediately. He meets his eyes for the first time in months. Harry stares at him, barely able to catch his breath, and a terrifying flash of fury rises through him. It’s gone in a blink, and he almost sobs.

“What’s happening to me?”

Dumbledore is silent. He holds Harry’s eyes for another long slew of seconds in which Harry thinks he might just break down and cry, embarrassingly and messily. Rather than answer, Dumbledore turns away and goes over to a cupboard behind his chair. He retrieves a large black kettle and places it on his desk, raises his wand and says,  _ “Portus!” _

The kettle rattles, lifts an inch off the desk and glows a bright blue before it settles abruptly, just as black as it had always been. McGonagall appears at Harry’s side and places a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder.

“He deserves an answer,” Ron croaks out. “You know he’s been having these dreams—”

“It cannot be here, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore says. 

“Why not!” Ginny cries. “Dad is—Dad is—”

“Look at him, Professor,” George says. 

“Can’t you see he’s hurting?” Fred growls.

At the same moment there’s a bright flash in the very middle of the office. A small pillar of flame flickers briefly, leaving behind a single golden feather that floats gently into Harry’s hands. Warmth radiates from it as it meets his skin, and his lungs begin to take in air again as they should.

“It is Fawkes’ warning,” says Dumbledore. “Professor Umbridge must know you’re out of your beds… Minerva, please go and head her off, tell her any story—”

Professor McGonagall is gone in an angry flare of green tartan.

“He says he’ll be delighted,” says a bored voice that Harry thinks he recognises. He looks to his right to see that the old, grumpy Phineas Nigellus has returned to his Slytherin-crested frame. “My great-great grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests.”

“Come, gather round,” Dumbledore says to Harry and the Weasleys. “Quickly, before anyone else joins us.”

They all shuffle forward to form a half-circle around Dumbledore’s desk.

“Have you all used a portkey before?” he asks, and all of them nod and reach out to touch the kettle. “Good, good. On the count of three… one… two…”

Harry jumps minutely as he feels another hand take his free one, the one with the scars carved into his flesh. He looks up in the split-second they have left and meets George’s grave but encouraging smile.

“Three.”

Something hooks behind his navel and pulls. The kettle lifts them into the aether and speeds them forward through yowling winds and a pressing cold. Harry clings to George’s hand and George clings back, and then they’re landing in somewhere dark and their knees are buckling and the kettle is clattering away—

“Back again, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father’s dying?”

“OUT!” roars a second voice, and Harry opens his eyes to see Sirius running towards them, dragging Kreacher away by the ear. They’re in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, lit by a weak fire and a single spluttering candle. Sirius is still in the day’s clothes and looking between them all with worry. Harry scrambles to his feet and cradles his right arm that had knocked the concrete floor badly.

“What’s going on?” Sirius asks, helping Ginny up. “Phineas Nigellus said Arthur’s been badly injured—”

“Ask Harry,” Fred says. They’re all standing around him now, watching him again, but this time with less fear and more tentative anxiety.

“It was—” Harry begins. He can’t look at them. It’s somehow worse than telling the headmaster. “I had a sort of vision. Really realistic, like I was there. It was… A snake. A really big one, sliding down this dark, tiled corridor. I’ve seen this corridor before, there’s always this black door at the end of it. But this time it was a snake moving, not a person, and in front of the door was your dad. And then…” Ron reaches out to take his shoulder. 

“I don’t really… It’s hard to… I was really  _ angry, _ all of a sudden. The snake—the snake was angry, because Mr Weasley had woken up, and so… When, when he went to fight it, the snake—attacked.” Harry’s voice wobbles and gives out to barely a whisper. He’s trembling again under Ron’s hand. They all watch him in silence. Ginny steps forward and copies Ron, pressing her hand to Harry’s back. She sounds out of breath.

“Is Mum here?” Fred asks, looking to Sirius.

“She might not even know what’s happened yet,” Sirius admits. “The important thing was to get you away from Umbridge before she started interfering, so I suspect Dumbledore’s letting Molly know now.

“We’ve got to go to St Mungo’s,” Ginny says, fist tightening in Harry’s shirt as she looks around at everyone in their pyjamas. “Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything?”

“Hang on!” Sirius yelps. “You can’t just go tearing off to St Mungo’s!”

“Course we can go to St Mungo’s if we want!” says Fred. “He’s our Dad!”

“And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?”

“What does that matter?” George demands, even though Harry knows they all know the answer.

“It matters because we don’t want to draw attention to the fact any of us is having visions of things happening hundreds of miles away!” Sirius snaps. “Have you any idea what the Ministry would do with that information?”

Fred and George are wearing expressions that scream that they couldn’t care less about the Ministry, though they both throw worried looks at Harry. Ron is still ashen and silent, and Ginny has begun shivering in tandem with Harry.

“Someone else could have told us…” she says. “It didn’t have to be Harry who told us.”

“Who?” Sirius asks. “Who could have known?”

“The portraits,” Harry mumbles. “The portraits could have known.”

“Listen,” Sirius sighs. “You dad’s been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened. You could seriously damage the Order’s—”

“We don’t care about the goddamn Order!” Fred says.

“It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!” George shouts. “We have to—!”

“Your father knew what he was getting into when he took up his position!” Sirius shouts back. “He won’t thank you if you go messing it all up now, will he? This is how it is—why you’re not in the Order—because you don’t understand that there are things worth dying for!”

“Easy for you to say—!” Fred begins to retort, fuming, but even George has the presence of mind to slap a hand over his mouth before he says anything more. “George! Let—me— _ go!” _

“No!” he says. “You don’t mean it.”

“I know it’s hard,” Sirius says, anger seeping from the set of his shoulders to make way for his stress. “We’ve got to act as though we don’t know anything yet. We’ve got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right? And then I promise I will do whatever I can to help you.”

Harry sees Fred nod jerkily and shuffle over to Ginny. Ginny refuses to let go of Harry’s shirt—maybe she can’t—but he hugs her anyway. 

“You may forget, but I’ve been in so many similar positions,” Sirius sighs. He sits heavily at the kitchen table and runs a tired hand over his face. “When I went to visit Pettigrew and found him gone… Anything could have happened to James and Lily—anything at all—but even when I got there it was nearly all of my worst fears all at once. Only… Only Harry…”

Harry makes an aborted, jerky movement, unsure himself what he wants to do. Ron shifts for the first time in minutes and Harry’s balance goes with him, but all he does is lead them all over to the table to sit. Harry slumps delicately into his chair, still strung out and feverish all over. Ginny sits on his left, finally managing to uncurl her cramping fingers from his back. He tries to smile at her, and she tries to smile back.

Sirius flicks his wand twice. The fire at the end of the kitchen leaps in its grate, and six bottles of butterbeer float their way over from the cupboard.

“Drink something,” he says. “Keep your hands occupied.”

Fred sits next to Ginny, and George across from them. Each of them take a bottle, though no one seems particularly eager to finish them. On Harry’s right, Ron slouches towards him and knocks their shoulders together.

“I wish Hermione were here,” he mumbles. Harry nods. 

Where he’s staring at the grain of the wood in front of him, a hand slips into view. Its fingers splay against the surface, calloused and red and scarred in places, its nails bitten short but neat. Harry smiles slightly. His heart is still in his throat, for all kinds of reasons, and he slides his own fingers out to meet them. They bump in the middle and stay that way for a moment or two before George lifts his hand and takes hold of Harry’s.

“Finally,” Ginny says around her bottle, so quietly Harry can pass it off as his imagination. For a while the only noises are the spitting of the fire and the glassy thuds of their bottles on the table. Harry can feel the guilt broiling in his stomach. Sitting as an intruder on his best friends’ grieving helps nothing, nothing at all, not even with the grounding of George’s hand wrapped around his.

At ten-past five in the morning, according to Ron’s watch, the door to the kitchen is thrown open by the most anxiously awaited Mrs Weasley. Fred, Ron and Harry are halfway out of their seats just at the noise, and she smiles at them all.

“He’s going to be all right,” she says, and only her voice and dark circles betray her weariness. “He’s sleeping, but we can go and visit him later. Bill’s sitting with him now; he’s going to take the morning off work.”

Fred collapses back into his chair with his hands over his face. George and Ginny are up like a shot to hug their mother, and Ron gives a choked laugh as he downs the rest of his butterbeer in one.

“Breakfast!” Sirius announces. “Where’s that accursed elf? Kreacher!  _ Kreacher!” _

Kreacher does not answer his summons.

“Oh, forget it.” Sirius counts them all before he turns to the pantry “Seven of us… Bacon and eggs I think, some tea, toast…”

Harry hurries over to the stove and sets about collecting pans and heating them all appropriately. He does his best to pretend he is not interrupting the relieved and joyful reunion behind him until he reaches for the plates and Mrs Weasley lifts them right out of his hands.

“I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t been for you, Harry,” she says, pulling him into a warm, desperate hug. “They might not have found him for hours, and then it would have been far too late, but thanks to you he’s alive. Dumbledore’s been able to think up a good enough cover story for Arthur being where he was—”

“Make space, Mum!” says Ron from behind the cloud of Mrs Weasley’s hair. Mrs Weasley steps back with a laugh when Ron jumps in and hugs Harry too, crushingly, and is followed by every single one of his siblings.

“Some group pile,” Sirius laughs. Harry gets hugged frequently after that, and it eases his worries about the snake a little to know that he still loves them just as much as always.

“Oh Sirius, I’m so grateful,” Mrs Weasley is saying. “They think he’ll be in there a little while, and it will be wonderful to be nearer… Of course, that might mean we’re here for Christmas…”

“The more the merrier!” Sirius cheers with such genuine sincerity that Mrs Weasley beams and hurries to help him with the food.


	9. Fifth Year, IV

Everyone but Harry sleeps that morning. He doesn’t dare let himself, else he might wake up to find he’s attacked Ron, or slithered off to go after anyone else in the house. When they all wake, of course, he pretends that he’s had a brilliantly refreshing nap, too. They get dressed when their trunks are delivered after lunch. 

George grabs Harry’s hand again when they’re being bustled on and off the tube, grinning broadly when Harry blushes and tangles their fingers together, hidden by the folds of George’s long woolen coat. He chatters quietly with Fred and Ron about the state of muggle transport and Harry tries not to get too exasperated.

“We’ll wait outside, Molly,” Tonks says when they get to the ward. “Arthur won’t want too many visitors all at once, it ought to be just the family first.”

Mad-Eye growls his approval and stations himself with his back to the wall. Harry goes to slink off to Tonks’ side, but Mrs Weasley catches him and ushers him forward instead.

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” she says. “Tonks said family first.”

Ron grins and slaps Harry, disbelieving and bewildered, on the back as they wander in. They find the room quite small for its purpose and a little on the side of dingy, with one narrow window in the far wall and greying magnolia curtains around each bed. Most of the light comes from the shining crystal bubbles floating down the middle of the ceiling, and the walls are panelled in a regal oaken wood.

There are only three patients on the ward, and Mr Weasley is occupying the bed at the very end beside the tiny window. Harry is very pleased to see him sitting up in bed and reading the morning’s paper, though he throws it aside immediately when he spots them.

“Dad!” Ginny says, trotting quickly over to see him.

“Hello, my dear,” he says, reaching out to hug her closer. “Bill just left, Molly, said he had to get to work but that he’ll drop in on you later.”

Mr Weasley takes the hands of each of his children in turn and then Harry, to whom he smiles warmly and gives an extra pat on the arm. Harry tries to retreat to the edge of the gathering but finds himself foiled when he backs into George’s chest instead. George leans both of his elbows on Harry’s shoulders and crosses the attached forearms over his collar, slouching over his back to rest his chin in Harry’s hair. He and Fred do their best to needle information out of Mr Weasley, and though Harry may or may not be conspicuously red in the face, no one gives them a second glance.

“Are you quite all right, Harry dear?” Mrs Weasley asks while she shuffles them out of the ward. He submits to the press of her hand to his forehead smiles guiltily when she tells him he feels fine.

“Maybe I’m just a bit warm,” he says, and ducks out of the door before she can coddle him any more.

“You know what she’s like,” Ginny says cheekily, winking at him with a scary semblance of her older brothers. Harry thinks that maybe Mrs Weasley was a little too late on getting them to set her good examples, but really—who would want them any other way?

######  _ \- x - _

“Harry?” Ron’s voice slips through Harry’s fretful sleep. “Mum says dinner’s nearly ready, but she’ll save you something if you want to stay in bed.”

Harry opens his eyes some seconds later, but Ron’s already gone. Of course he has; none of them will want to be around Harry after they heard what Moody said back in the ward. If Voldemort’s possessing him, he’s surprised they haven’t thrown him out of the house already.

His bed dips what feels like only minutes later, but now the shadows in the room have grown to meet the walls, sinking them into darkness. A large hand pets softly through his hair, ruffling it and stroking in a sweet, comforting gesture. One he doesn’t deserve.

“Dont,” he murmurs. The hand he reaches out with comes to fall on the thigh of someone’s jeans.

“What is it?” George murmurs. “Harry?”

“No, don’t,” Harry repeats, pushing his leg away. “It’s dangerous.”

“What are you—”

“I’m  _ dangerous,” _ he says. George doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t leave Harry’s bed for another horrible, horrible few minutes. Harry wants him. Oh, Harry wants him so much, wants to curl into his arms and blame the whole world for all their pain, but he can’t.

He can’t, because he’s far too fucking dangerous to be around the people he loves.

George leaves him, eventually. The door creaks shut after him, and the next time Harry wakes is in the early hours of the morning with Ron snoring away in the next bed. He leaps up at that, shaken, and dresses quickly. Phineas Nigellus has returned to his portrait, probably to keep watch over him for Dumbledore. Sod Dumbledore.

He stumbles out of the room with his jumper in his hands and one sock on and makes his way upstairs to an upper-floor drawing room before anyone can convince him otherwise. He curls up there in a dusty armchair with one of the books someone’s left on a side table. He tries not to think, just for a while.

The sky pales and whitens with the struggling morning sun. He hears everyone wake up, breakfast, and then set about the house with Christmas decorations and carols. He hopes with a sickening lurch of spite that they’re having fun talking about him where he can’t hear them, because he’s almost certain that’s what they’ll be doing. He wonders what they think of him now.

Around lunch time Mrs Weasley calls softly up to him, beckoning him down. He ignores her and scrambles farther up, locking himself in Buckbeak’s room. He bows lowly, and Buckbeak bows his shiny great feathered head in return, so he settles himself amongst the staw and feathers and stares out at the clouds. The sky is heavy with the threat of snow, now, as he feeds his companion dead rats.

At around six in the evening the doorbell goes, waking up the portrait of Mrs Black who is crisply audible even all the way up here. He wonders if Remus has come home, and feeds Buckbeak some more rats.

Several minutes later something pounds against his door. He jumps in shock, knocking his elbow against an old bookshelf.

“I know you’re in there!” says a stern version of Hermione’s voice. “Will you please come out? I want to talk to you.”

Harry struggles to his feet on stiff legs and opens the door. 

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” he asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be in France?”

“It’s lovely to see you too, Harry,” she snarks. “I’m great, thanks for asking, and I appreciate you letting me know you were all here.”

Harry cowers back a little as she flashes her charmed sickle at him, shrinking in on the urge to bite back at her. It wouldn’t be fair to go off on one again after everything else.

She sighs. “To tell you the truth, skiing’s not really my thing. Don’t tell Ron, though, I told him it’s really good because he kept laughing. My parents are a bit disappointed, but I told them everyone who’s serious about exams is staying at Hogwarts to study, and they said they understand. Anyway,” she brushes half-melted snow from her hair and turns to the stairs. “We’re going back to your room. Ron’s mum’s lit a fire and made us sandwiches.”

Harry, resigned, closes Buckbeak’s door and follows her all the way down to the second floor. They slip into Ron’s bedroom, where he’s surprised to find all three Fred, Ron and Ginny on Ron’s bed, and George sitting pretty on Harry’s. 

“I came on the Knight Bus,” Hermione tells him, taking off her jacket and hanging it on Harry’s bedpost. She sits down on the end of Harry’s bed and starts taking off her boots. “Dumbledore told me what happened first thing in the morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before coming over. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr Weasley was in St Mungo’s and he’d given you all permission. So… How are you feeling?”

Harry stands awkwardly between the two beds. “Fine,” he says.

“Really, now,” she sighs, completely disbelieving. “Come on, at least sit down.”

Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot. Ron nods encouragingly, and Fred tips his head meaningfully towards Harry’s bed. Harry looks at the space left for him, and almost trembles with his weakness and exhaustion when George holds out a hand. 

He doesn’t look at the others as steps forward and reaches out, carefully and slowly. Their fingers slide together the same way they always have—no flashes of anger or violence, no static sparks or uncomfortable prickling. Harry doesn’t know what he expected, when only his heart starts fluttering in the way he already knows so well. George reels him in and Harry goes, folding onto the bed and throwing his arms around George’s shoulders in a much needed hug.

“You’re not dangerous, silly,” he mutters in Harry’s ear.

Ginny clears her throat, and, blushing, Harry sits down properly to face them.

“They’ve been telling me you’ve been hiding from everyone since you got back from St Mungo’s,” Hermione says.

Harry gives a short, quiet laugh. “Have they.”

“Well, you have!” Ginny protests. “Saying things like you’re dangerous and refusing to talk to us!”

“I’m sure you’ve talked about it plenty for me,” he says, childish and sullen.

“Oh, stop feeling so misunderstood,” Hermione admonishes, but she pats his knee.

Ginny clicks her tongue behind her teeth. “Who do you know who’s definitely been possessed by Voldemort before and might  _ actually _ be able to tell you what it’s like?”

“Oh,” Harry says, brought sharply down to Earth in a word. “I’m—I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” she tuts. “You’re here now.”

“So… Can I…?”

“Well, can you remember everything you’ve been doing?” she asks. “Are there big blank periods where you don’t know what you’ve been up to?”

Harry frowns and thinks hard. 

“No,” he says.

“Then You-Know-Who hasn’t possessed you,” she decides, simple as that.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Oh.”

She grins. “When it was me, I’d wake up in places I couldn’t remember going, no idea what I’d done to lose so many hours at a time. It was scary as shit, as I’m sure you can imagine, which is why it was so hard to tell anyone about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, wincing. The others are looking similarly pained.

“It’s fine now, isn’t it? I didn’t kill anyone.”

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place, is the point,” Fred mutters. Hermione picks up the plate of sandwiches and hands them round, waving it under Harry’s nose until he picks one up, automatically taking a huge bite.

“So why do people think Harry’s being possessed?” George asks.

Harry swallows. “Because in the dream, I was the snake. I could feel its anger. When my scar hurts, I know what Voldemort’s feeling, if he’s angry, if he’s happy. I’ve scared the crap out of my dorm a couple of times… No wonder Seamus thinks I’m barmy.”

Ron hums. “But that isn’t possession, is it? That’s just like a transfer or something… Like sharing a link… Through the scar, maybe?”

“What? You’re saying Harry’s scar links him to Voldemort?” Fred asks. 

“Possibly,” Hermione says. “It sounds unlikely to be the  _ scar, _ but we can’t know everything about everything now, can we? And least of all curse marks… Harry sounds like he’s either linked to Voldemort’s emotions or… Sharing his consciousness, to some extent. Like when you were in the snake it would have felt like you  _ were _ the snake because you were sharing a body, does that make sense?”

“Sort of,” Harry says, finishing his sandwich in another large bite. “So you’re saying I can what, look inside Voldemort sometimes?”

“It’s not unreasonable to think he’s either possessing or controlling that snake of his,” George says. “Sounds like a nifty way to get around without actually, well,  _ going.” _

Harry looks at the second sandwich Hermione is pushing on him and takes it gladly. Now he’s thought about it, he’s really fucking hungry.

“So, all for Harry not being possessed?” Hermione asks. Five hands rise instantly into the air. Harry smiles. “Motion passed. Harry, you’re not allowed to hide anymore.”

They all laugh as they watch him groan and hide behind George’s arm. “Not even when Ron’s snoring keeps me awake?”

“Sorry mate, you’re stuck.”

“Not even from your mum?”

“Hah,  _ no!” _

“Not even when I want to find somewhere to—”

“No, no!” Hermione yelps, covering her ears. “Stop right there!”

Harry grins. “I was going to say have a midnight snack…”

“Yeah, what were  _ you _ thinking, Hermione?”

“Oh, shut up!”

Sirius chooses that moment to come tramping past singing “God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs,” at the top of his voice. He sticks his head around the door to look in on them.

“That’s a lot of laughing—you aren’t plotting something, are you?” He grins.

“Not yet!” Fred replies jovially.

“Oh good, let me know when you are!”

They all snicker as he closes the door again. Harry is finally back to feeling as light as he had two nights ago, in the Room of Requirement, and almost joins in with Sirius’ next verse. George grins and tugs him closer, flipping off Ginny and Ron when they make disgusted faces and retching sounds.

“Shut up, Ron, you’re only jealous!”

“No I’m not!” Ron shouts. “I’m  _ not! _ Stop laughing!”

######  _ \- x - _

“Ron, have you tried using the hooks?” Hermione asks patiently. Ron, who is trying to hang a bauble in mid air, it appears, looks bemusedly at the decorations in his arms and then at the chandelier. There are, indeed, little hooks on each of its arms.

“I saw those,” he grumbles, and hangs his bauble from one.

“Don’t fall,” Harry says when he moves his foot to the edge of the chair he’s standing on.

Ron clicks his tongue. “Are you two helping or directing?”

“Helping,” Hermione says, at the same time Harry says, “Directing, definitely.” Hermione smacks him on the arm. A little puff of glitter rises from his jumper.

“Psst! Mr Director!” someone hisses from the doorway.

“Hey,” Harry says, turning to smile at Fred and George. They beckon him over, so he slips into the hall and closes the door behind him. “What’s up?”

“We wanted your thoughts on our new plan,” Fred says. They’re both wearing what Harry and Ron have dubbed their ‘plotting grins’.

“Oh?” he asks. “Is it good?”

George smirks. “We thought so.”

“We found loads of these old buttons in a drawer upstairs.” Fred opens his palm to show Harry five old, silver-framed buttons, each set with a large opal. “Sirius said he doesn’t want them, and they’re not even cursed.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “That’s good?”

“Well, it’s a little disappointing, seeing as we were thinking of giving them to Umbridge as a small token of our appreciation,” George tells him. “They do look right up her alley.”

Harry grins. “What’ve you done to them, then?”

“Well, at first we thought we could douse them in itching powder, but then we thought she’d figure it out too quickly and stop using them,” says Fred.  _ “Then _ we thought we could probably jinx them to give off bad smells at random times, but that seemed just as obvious. So, we put different things on each of them and gave them a trigger. One is charmed to create this buzzing noise, like a fly or something, every time she says the word ‘exam’—” (the button in question begins to hum, though the sound is faint and detached enough to not give itself away) “—one will pop off whatever she has it on when she says ‘detention’—” (a second button gives a little leap in his palm) “—and one will give off a bad smell at the word ‘punishment’. One has a tickling charm embedded in it for ‘You-Know-Who’ _ —gah!” _

Fred shudders and tightens his hand around the buttons again, curling in on himself and trying not to make too much noise. George snorts and watches him writhe for a minute, shooting Harry a fiendish smile when he doubles over with laughter.

“Hey!” Fred protests between breaths. “Help me here!”

George takes out his wand and taps him over the shoulder with it. Fred relaxes again, straightening up immediately and trying to play it off casually. Unfortunately for him, neither of them are buying it.

“Anyway, as I was saying, this last one we’re just going to open up and put itching powder in so it gets on her clothes.” He looks at Harry expectantly. “What’d’you think?”

“I think it’s brilliant,” he says gleefully. “Why not just charm them all? And how are you going to get her to wear them?”

“Ooh, well that’s our speciality, isn’t it?” George says. “We slip these in a little pink paper packaging, address them to  _ Professor D. J. Umbridge, _ and tell her they’re from an admirer who thinks she and the Minister are doing wonders for the school. Maybe even Lord Malfoy himself.”

Harry giggles. “I’m not sure she’d believe you if you said they were from the Malfoys.”

“Oh but she’d just eat it right up, wouldn’t she?” Fred snickers. “That toad, toading away in her sugarmouse-hole of an office.”

“I love it,” Harry says, “just don’t get caught.”

“When have we ever?” George gasps, flattening his hand against his chest in mock offence.

“I seem to remember you telling me about that time you stole the map from Filch’s office—”

“Yeah, yeah, you cheeky prick.” Fred ruffles his hair even as he squirms away from him. “Just watch—she’ll be driving herself mad for days!”

“She better!” he calls after them, and laughs again as he rejoins Ron and Hermione, now struggling to keep the tinsel attached to the wardrobe.

“What’d they want?” Ron asks, not bothering to hide his suspicion. 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Harry says. Hermione gives him a look, but he doesn’t care. He might as well be walking on clouds.

######  _ \- x - _

“Hey Trouble,” George says. 

“Hey,” Harry replies, smiling over the top of the notebook Hermione had given him for DA planning. George smiles back and wanders into his room, leaning against the bedpost at his feet.

“What’s got you hidden away at this fine hour?”

“It’s not like we’ve got anywhere to go,” Harry snorts. “And  _ someone _ distracted me after our last meeting, so I forgot to make my notes.”

“Oh, did they?” George asks him, ever so innocent. “That’s a shame. I wonder what could be more important than all those notes.”

“I wonder indeed,” Harry agrees, running his teeth over his bottom lip. His head feels light just at the memory. “Must have been good.”

George smirks. “Must have been.” He gestures to the book. “So, do you keep notes on all of us in there, or just the usual boring rubbish?”

“Sometimes I make a note if someone’s having particular trouble, or if anyone makes any requests,” Harry says. “It’s all coded, so don’t worry. Hermione’s password-protected the book, too.”

“Ooh, secret codes!” George grins. “Are all of our names different? What’s mine? Is it embarrassing? I bet whatever it is it’s better than Fred’s.”

“It’s  _ normal,” _ Harry laughs.

“I bet there are little hearts around it,” he continues.

“No hearts.”

“None?”

“None.”

“I don’t believe you!”

_ “Oi!” _

Harry jerks away as George lunges for him, evil glint in his eye as he reaches for the book. Harry manages to hold it out of reach for all of five seconds, pinned under George’s considerable forearms and unable to wiggle away. George snatches the book out of his hands and jumps off the bed, already flicking through the pages to try and find the codenames.

“Oi, give it back!” Harry laughs, rolling over and stumbling after him. George grins and keeps his back turned on him, making Harry jump and paw and even try to climb him for it.

“Ooh, Sidewinder—is this Ron? Sounds snakey.”

“George!” Harry protests through his laughter.

“No wait—Lionheart! That must be me, right?”

_ “No!” _

“Sicilia? Who’s that?”

“George, give it back!”

George spins around to grin at him and holds it high over his head. He grins down at him and leans slightly backwards, over the mattress.

“What, sweetheart, something in here you don’t want me to see?”

_ “No,” _ Harry lies. He grabs hold of George’s jumper and leans over him, still reaching for the book. “You’re only an inch taller than me! Stop being so mean!”

“It’s two, at least,” he says, and then his grin fades into surprise as his foot slips from under him and they both go crashing back down to Harry’s bed. 

“What the—ah!”

“Agh— _ fuck _ Harry!”

“Sorry!” Harry yelps, still laughing. He removes his elbow from George’s stomach and pushes himself up on his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to gut you.”

“I didn’t throw up, so we’re fine,” George wheezes. His mouth curls very quickly back up into a smirk. “But if you wanted me in your bed you only had to ask.”

Harry chokes. “Hey—what! No!”

“No?”

“Not—not no, but  _ no!” _

“Hey, can we stick with English?” George laughs.

“You’re horrible,” Harry groans, flumping back down and hiding his burning face in George’s chest. “I hate you.”

“Nah, you don’t.”

“I think I like Fred better.”

“Harry! How could you say such a thing! He doesn’t even have any fashion sense!”

Harry cackles into the wool and thumps him lightly. “You wear the same things half the time!”

“That doesn’t mean anything and you know it.” George pokes him in the side, and he only laughs harder.

It’s when he lifts his head to meet George’s eyes that he really remembers where they are. He’s comfortable and warm and happy, and then he sees George’s reddish cheeks and too-soft gaze and his heart thuds excitedly through his chest. The DA notebook is forgotten on his pillow as he inches himself up George’s body until they’re nose to nose.

“Hey there,” George murmurs.

“Hey yourself,” he replies, smiling so brightly his cheeks are hurting. George’s hands slide up his sides, fingers dipping cheekily under his t-shirt.

“Wanna tell me what name you’ve got for me?” 

“No.”

“Oh, go on. Please?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a secret anymore.”

“I’ll go with Lionheart then.”

“I told you, that’s not—”

The rest of Harry’s protests are lost, but to no real sadness. George kisses him softly, cautiously, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. It’s chaste and dry, and Harry smiles. He presses back harder, feeling every breath George takes beneath his ribs and pulling it out of him with relish. Hands tangle in his hair, pulling tiny tugs that make him groan and shimmy with embarrassment. He opens his mouth when George’s tongue flicks out over his lips, and from then he’s gone completely.

George’s hands disappear from his hair and he flips them, rolling nearly off the narrow bed as he gets Harry under him. Harry laughs and pulls him back down to kiss languidly and unhurried, bracketed by warmth and happiness. He whines when George leaves his mouth and instead presses kisses to his throat until he’s sucking there, hard, and the sensation is so weird that Harry almost shouts out in surprise. Whatever it is goes straight to his dick, and he no longer has any hope of escaping without suffering his chronic furious blush.

George hums against his neck and closes his teeth gently over the new mark. Harry is already trying to tug him by the hair back to his mouth.

“Oh! Fucking hell!” is an unexpected shout from the doorway. Harry jumps violently and George jerks away from him, sitting back on his legs and almost falling over. “You do remember I sleep here too, right, Harry?”

Ron is standing, half turned away from them, with one hand on the door handle and one over his eyes. Harry sits up too, retrieving his feet from underneath George and curling up behind his knees.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” George says indignantly. “We’re fully clothed and everything.”

“For how long,” they both hear Ron mutter, but he does drop the hand away from his eyes. “Can you, like, lock the door next time?”

“We’re in no need to rush things,” George tells him smartly. He gets up from the bed and crosses to the door. “And anyway, it’s not like I plan everything I do.”

Harry snorts, and waves George out when he winks and swings the door shut behind him. Ron hovers for a moment, looking pained, before he walks forward and collapses face first into his sheets.

“I didn’t need that,” Harry thinks he says. With the muffling, it’s hard to tell.

“Sorry,” he says again. Ron waves a lazy hand towards him, and he confesses, “I thought you’d be more upset, honestly.”

“No, we had to deal with Percy and Oliver. This is nothing.”

“No, I mean… He’s… your brother.”

Ron rolls over to face him, but Harry finds sudden interest in the tiny pull in his pillowcase.

“Why would it upset me?” Ron asks, and sighs when Harry shrugs. “It’s fine. Mum’s had this idea about you marrying into the family since third year, she just thought it would be Ginny.”

Harry smiles. “Your opinion matters to me, Ron.” 

Ron snorts. “You’re happy. Why would I disagree with that?”

When Harry picks up his notebook again he finds a quill he doesn’t own lying next to it. He frowns slightly and flips through the pages, but nothing seems to have been written over or changed or doodled on. He gets back to his half-done page and goes to pick up his own quill, but pauses and turns the page over instead. There, scrawled wonkily over the bottom of the right hand page is a little note that says, 

_ Keep up the good work! xxx G _

Next to it he’s even drawn a scratchy, mis-matched heart. Harry thinks that maybe he shouldn’t judge the artistic talents of a man who was simultaneously trying to eat his neck.

He smiles, picks up his quill, and gets back to work. He does notice, however, on the front page, where the codename  _ Trouble _ has been ever so slightly smudged with George’s fingerprint. 

Give the man the answer and he’ll overlook it all by himself.

######  _ \- x - _

Harry wakes on Christmas morning to a small hill of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron grinning as he creeps up on him from the side.

“I’m awake!” he says, sitting up quickly and laughing as Ron sighs in disappointment. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” Ron says. “Look at all this stuff!”

“We’d better get to opening then, hadn’t we?”

Ron jumps back into his own bed and picks up the first parcel, saluting Harry with it before he begins tearing into the paper. Harry grins and does the same.

He uncovers the huge box of sweets from Ron first, wandering over to give him a hug even as he opens it and starts fishing around for the safe-looking ones. Ron squeezes him back tightly and begins to gush about the broom compass he’s given him, but Harry shoves what turn out to be rosemary and plywood flavoured beans into his mouth to shut him up. Hermione has given them both homework planners that talk at them, and Mr and Mrs Weasley their new Weasley jumpers and a stack of mince pies. Harry pulls on his jumper immediately, running his fingers over the golden H on the breast.

Sirius and Remus have given him a set of Defence Against the Dark Arts books, complete with moving colour diagrams of everything they describe. He flicks through them eagerly, already making notes on which to try first and which to prioritise for the DA. Between the pages of the first volume is a little, note-filled sheet of parchment. Both Remus and Sirius have written on it, interrupting each other sporadically, telling him how proud they are and that they need to be careful. 

_ She will stop at nothing to catch you, I’m sure of it, _ Remus has written.  _ I need you to make sure you’re happy with your security and think about having at least one contingency plan. _

_ It’ll be an honour to have you on side, when you’re old enough, _ says Sirius.  _ We’re proud of you all for being so brave. _

The little box from Tonks opens to reveal a tiny model firebolt that whizzes around in his hand. It’s beautiful, but even now it makes him ache for the real thing locked up in Umbridge’s office. Hagrid has sent him a furry brown wallet with fangs, which he supposes is an anti-theft device, though they rather prevent him putting any money  _ in, _ in the first place.

Underneath that is another thin paper bag with Hermione’s writing on it. Curious, Harry breaks the seal and slides several things out onto the duvet. One of them is a note, which he reads with a smile.

_ Merry Christmas, Harry! I thought it would be nice to have something to put in that notebook of yours, so I sneaked back up to the room before we left Hogwarts. Apparently, if you ask nicely, the magic is more than happy to copy these for you. Happy scrapbooking and much love, Hermione x _

Hermione has given him a small stack of glossy, moving photographs. At the top is an incredible group shot of them, Harry lecturing and demonstrating at the forefront. The next is one of Luna and Ginny levitating cushions over the heads of the twins, and the next is that one of Susan and her butterflies, and the one of Katie and Angelina. There’re ones of the twins and Lee, ones of Ron, Harry and Hermione together, and of Ron, Harry, Neville and Dean; the conspicuous absence of Seamus stings, just a little. The last one has him almost choking on his own gasp, surprised as he is. Because it’s him and George, under the mistletoe. Of course it is.

God, he wonders what she’d thought when she’d seen  _ that. _

He stares at it until he can feel his cheeks burning and then slides Hermione’s note and all of the photos back into the bag. He tucks it into the sleeve of his DA notebook, as suggested, and when Ron gives him his ‘Are you all right, mate?’ look from across the room, Harry realises he’s grinning from ear to ear.

At the very bottom of his pile of presents is a small canvas from Dobby, with what can only be described as a truly awful painting. Harry is only just turning it upside down to see if he can figure out what it is when Fred and George apparate into the room with a loud  _ crack. _

“Good morning my good gentlemen!” Fred announces. “Merry Christmas to all!”

“Merry Christmas!” Ron says, rattling a brand new box of chess pieces. “Thanks for the new set!”

“Your old one’s a bit battered,” George says. He holds up a long black box and looks at Harry disapprovingly. “And you, Mister! What did we say about not getting us anything?”

“If you’re going to be wizarding Britain's masters of practical jokes you’ll have to look the part,” Harry tells him, grinning impishly.

“That’s no excuse for spending any more money on us—what the hell is that?” Fred says, leaning over and squinting at Dobby’s picture. “Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.”

“It’s Harry!” George says, rapping his fingers over the wooden backing. “Says so on the back!”

“Ah, yes, I see it now! Good likeness.”

Fred ducks as Harry tries to thwap him with his pillow. “A-nyway, we came to spread our own good cheer.”

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” George says, leaning down and kissing him on the cheek. He hands him a brown paper package with a round, yellow and orange seal. On it, in bright purple, is the Weasley name mirrored either side of a yellow six-pointed star.

“I like your branding,” Harry tells them, peeling the sticker off carefully and opening up the bag. He tips out a small packet of Canary Creams, three boxes labelled  _ Distraction Detonators, _ where  _ Distraction _ has been crossed out and re-labelled  _ Decoy, _ and a number of Extendable Ears. 

“The detonators are still in early trials, but we think you’ll find a use or two for them,” says Fred, winking. “Let us know how they turn out if we aren’t around, yeah?”

“Thank you,” Harry says. “You know you really don’t need to do this, right?”

Fred throws his hands in the air as if he’s being difficult. “Of course we do! Merlin, you’re almost as thick as Ron.”

“Shut it, will you?” Ron grumbles. “It’s Christmas.”

“Think of it as your gift to us.”

“Are you lot coming down or what?” Ginny asks, skipping past their door on her way downstairs.

“Calm down, woman!” Fred calls after her. “It’s eight in the morning!” Her laughter echoes back up towards them.

######  _ \- x - _

“Never have I ever set one of my professors on fire,” Ron says, and Hermione glares at him.

“That was targeted!” she says, but takes her token anyway. She can’t complain—she has the smallest pile of all of them. “‘Who was the last person you remember dreaming about’… It was Harry, and he was telling me that Umbridge wanted me to find the Golden Scroll, whatever that is. Needless to say he said we should steal it. Next.”

“How boring,” Fred says. “Never have I ever been scared of spiders.”

Harry laughs as all three Ron, Ginny and George take their tokens.

“Why do I only get stupid things?” Ron whines. “It says I have to wear pillowcases on my arms and head for the next three rounds.”

“Mine wants me to mix everyone’s drinks into one,” George says. “Too bad we’re all boring.”

“I’m drinking water and Ginny has orange juice,” Hermione points out, already taking the pillowcases off Ron and Harry’s pillows. Fred grins and summons a glass, waving it under George’s nose until he takes it. They mix together several large glugs of butterbeer, water and juice and jeer as George grimaces and downs it in one.

“I don’t see why you’re all complaining!” Ginny says, waving off the choking noises he makes. “I have to lick someone’s foot!”

“Eugh!” Ron says, slightly muffled. “Not mine!”

“Or mine,” George agrees, still sour-faced.

“Go on, Ginny,” Fred grins, sticking out his leg.

“Go away!” She smacks him, hard. “I bet none of you even wash properly.”

“Excuse me,” Harry says. “I think you’ll find I’m very clean.”

Ginny scrunches her nose. “I’d rather lick Hermione, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of bootlickers out there waiting for you.”

Hermione sighs and lifts her foot into Ginny’s hand. “It doesn’t say the bottom of the foot, right?”

“Nope,” Ginny says, and runs her tongue over the top of Hermione’s sock.

Hermione grimaces. “Please let’s not do that again.”

“I don’t think any of us were planning on it,” Ron mutters.

“Anyway, it’s my turn now,” Ginny announces. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and smiles in a very self-satisfied way. “Never have I ever had a crush on my younger brother’s friend!”

“You don’t have a younger brother!” shout Fred and George, both looking outraged. “You’re cheating!”

_ “Am not!” _ she says. “Go on, pick a forfeit.”

George crosses his arms. “No! You can’t do that!”

“If Ron can, Ginny can,” Harry snickers. 

“It’s still cheating!” Fred insists, but he picks up a token anyway. 

“Hold on!” Ron says loudly, peeking out from beneath his pillowcase.  _ “Both _ of you have?”

“One’s obvious,” Harry snorts.

“I’m not telling you  _ anything,” _ Fred sniffs. George opens his mouth, looking gleeful, and gets several fingers in the ribs.

“Not even if you have to?” Harry asks, leaning over Fred’s shoulder to read  _ ‘Give the name of your most embarrassing crush’ _ on his token.

“Oh, piss  _ off,” _ he groans.

They batter him with cushions until he confesses.

######  _ \- x - _

George holds a finger to his lips as Harry sneaks out of his and Ron’s room. He closes the door gently, grinning when they hear Ron’s snores thundering on the other side. Harry takes his hand, tangling their fingers together, and lets George lead him up a level. They turn into a short corridor and listen briefly to the creaks of the house before creeping along it.

“Isn’t your mum going to check on us?” Harry whispers.

“Shh,” George hisses, barely above his breath. “She isn’t as fussed now we’ve pretended to give up on being in the Order.”

Harry nods. “Where are we going?”

“In here,” he says, and eases open the next door on their right. It’s shadowy and unmarked and had been previously overlooked by when they were cleaning, but it swings open to reveal a perfectly serviceable bathroom.

“Record-breaking lack of snakes in here,” Harry says quietly, looking around.

“I think Sirius hexed them off,” George grins. He closes the door and points up. “Look, you can see where they’ve been broken off the cornices.”

Harry looks up and yes, sure enough, there are chalky white craters in the cornice, but in the moment he lets his guard down George tackles him and tickles him until he shrieks.

“George!” he says. “George, we’re going to get caught!”

“No worries, I put up a muffling charm,” George tells him, refusing to abate in his tickle-assault regardless of how much Harry writhes and shouts. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know!”

“It’s going to be a lot less pretty when I elbow it accidentally!”

“Aw, that’s cute—he thinks he can reach.”

“S-Stop!” he manages between side-splitting cackles. “You’re not  _ funny!” _

“Then why are you laughing?”

_ “Hey!” _

“How about I let you go if you tell me what nickname you’ve given me? It’s not something embarrassing, is it?”

_ “George!” _

Harry finally manages to twist between his arms and slip out from underneath them, rolling across the floorboards and trying to catch his breath. He’s still laughing when George sits down next to him and threatens him with tickles again, though Harry catches his wrists and turns it into an arm wrestle instead.

“Merlin, you seekers really are small,” George says. “You need to train your arms more!”

“We don’t need to hit anything like you brutes!” Harry retorts. “We need our legs more—you know that.”

“But look at you!” George lets one of Harry’s hands go suddenly to slip an arm around his waist, and Harry topples easily into his lap with a yell. “No arm strength!”

“More than Ron and Hermione,” he grumbles, sitting up. “And I bet I could absolutely smash you in agility.”

George smirks. “Oh, you can smash me all right.”

“Jesus Christ…” Harry groans, hiding his face in his hands so George won’t see him grinning like a lunatic.

“I didn’t actually mean to say that,” George mutters, and when Harry looks up he’s a brighter red than his hair.

“Come here, you absolute pillock,” he says, and drags him into a kiss. George responds enthusiastically, though now they’re both smiling into each other’s mouths it’s a little harder to keep on task. Harry takes a deep breath and wraps the short strands of George’s hair around his fingers, leaning up on his knees when George’s hands try to worm their way under his thighs. George picks him up and staggers to his feet, and they both go tilting precariously back towards the bath before Harry leans his weight down and tries to hook his ankles around George’s back.

“This feels dangerous,” he says, biting down on his lip.

“Should feel like home to you, then,” George replies. His eyebrows jump in a way that screams ‘tell-me-I’m-wrong’ and Harry giggles. “But,” he continues, “you still weigh twice as much as a sack of potatoes, so I’ll still have to put you down somewhere, your highness.”

“Here I was, thinking you were some big strong beater with superior arm strength,” Harry teases. George rests him against the sink and he runs his fingers down his arms, smirking up at him.

“I’ll beat you in a minute,” George mumbles, flushing again immediately. Harry snickers and reels him back in by the nightshirt, settling into the sink and its chilly ceramic that probably won’t hold his weight for much longer.

The door handle clatters loudly as it turns, across the room, and George jumps away from him like he’s been shocked. He scrambles for his wand and flicks it to dispel his charm, managing it just in time for Tonks to swing the door open wide and stop in her tracks, staring at the two of them with a slightly bemused expression.

“Wotcher, Harry,” she says. “Didn’t expect you two up so late.”

“Hey Tonks,” Harry says brightly. “Just get back?”

“Yeah, actually…” She glances to George. “Why is Harry in the sink?”

“He likes to feel tall,” George replies without a lick of hesitation. Harry leans over and smacks him on the shoulder.

“Don’t we all,” she laughs. “Okay, you two behave yourselves. I’m trusting you to keep him from doing something stupid and heroic, George!”

She leaves them alone in the random, disused bathroom and closes the door behind her. They can both hear her chuckling on the other side.

“Well that was embarrassing,” George says. “How did she know it was me?”

“I like to feel tall?” Harry asks him.  _ “I like to feel tall.” _

He grins and slots himself back between Harry’s thighs. “Am I wrong?”

“That’s the best you could come up with?”

“What else could I have said?”

“I don’t know, do I? But how do you remember to put up a  _ muffling charm _ but not  _ lock the bloody door?” _

“Sorry,” George whines. He ducks his face into Harry’s neck to nose at the mark Harry’s been trying to hide under overlarge jumpers and scarves for a week.

“Come here,” Harry sighs. “She probably doesn’t care, anyway, or just thinks we’re really weird.”

“I mean, she’d be right.”

“Shut up,” he snorts. “I think  _ you _ should be called Trouble, not me.”

George grins up at him coyly. “Maybe we could share.”

“Only as long as you find a way to kiss me and not be interrupted.”

“Deal,” he says, and proceeds to snog him quite thoroughly for the next half hour.

Harry may no longer be able to feel his toes by the time he’s sneaking back into bed, but the rest of him is flushed and trembling and hot all over and his lips are still buzzing under his fingers. A good night, all things considered.


	10. Fifth Year, V

“Why can’t Dumbledore teach Harry?” Sirius snaps. “Why you?”

Harry rather agrees. Defence against external attacks? It sounds dangerous, not to mention intrusive. Are they still on about him being possessed, or have they finally reached a theory similar to Ron and Hermione’s? Either way, he doesn’t like the sound of it.

“I suppose,” Snape sneers, “that it is because it is the headmaster’s privilege to delegate less enjoyable tasks to his staff. I assure you I did not beg for the job.” He gets to his feet and turns to Harry. “I shall expect you in my office on the dot of six o’clock, Monday evening, Potter. If anyone asks, you are to tell them that you’re taking remedial potions. Nobody who knows you will deny that you need them.”

He turns towards the door, letting his heavy black travelling cloak flare dramatically behind him.

“Just a moment, Severus,” Sirius says, sitting forward in his chair.

Snape curls his lip, but looks over his shoulder as he pauses by the door. “I am in rather a hurry, Black. Unlike you, I do not have unlimited leisure time.”

“I’ll get to the point then.” Sirius stands and rounds the table, staring him down. “If I hear that you’re using these occlumency lessons to give Harry a hard time, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“How touching,” Snape bites out. “But surely you have noticed that Potter is very much like his father?”

“I have.”

“Well then, you will know that he’s arrogant enough for criticism to simply slide like water off his back.”

Sirius’ hand flashes as he whips his wand from his pocket and levels it at Snape. Snape’s own wand is out and at the ready. 

“Sirius!” Harry says loudly. They ignore him and continue to square up to each other. Sirius’ face contorts with anger and Snape looks on calculatingly, eyes flicking from Sirius to his wandtip.

“I’ve warned you, _Snivellus._ I don’t care if Dumbledore thinks you’re reformed, you’re still as slimy as—”

“Oh, spare me the theatrics, Black,” Snape retorts. “Why don’t you just go running off to Dumbledore, hm? Tell him I’m still untrustworthy while you’re at it. Do you think he’s so likely to believe the man who’s been hiding in his mother’s house for six months?”

“Tell me,” Sirius grins, “how is Lucius Malfoy doing these days? I expect he’s delighted that his lapdog is still working at Hogwarts, isn’t he?”

“Speaking of dogs, did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognised you last time you risked that little jaunt outside? Clever idea, I must say, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform… It gave you your cast-iron excuse not to leave your pit of a hideout, didn’t it?”

“No!” Harry yells, as Sirius sneers and raises his wand. He vaults the kitchen table and stumbles in between them, throwing his hands out to push each of them away. “Sirius! Stop it!”

“Are you calling me a coward?” Sirius shouts. He tries to pull Harry’s arm to get him out of the way, but Harry refuses to move. He stands his ground, facing down the ends of both wands, even though he’s certain one of them would not angst over an accidental slip.

“Why yes,” Snape says. “I suppose I am.”

“Harry!” Sirius hisses. “Get—out—of—”

The door behind them is thrown open, bouncing lightly off the wall. The entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, tumble inside, grinning from ear to ear. Mr Weasley is standing proudly in their midst in his hospital pyjamas and a bright red rain mack.

“Cured!” he announces to the kitchen, before frowning and leaning back at the sight in front of him. “Merlin’s beard, Harry. What’s going on?”

Sirius and Snape had frozen at the turn of the handle, wands still out and pointed at each other over Harry. Harry’s hands are still firmly on each of them, holding them apart with all his might. At the Weasleys’ interruption they lower their wands slowly, glaring at each other with the utmost contempt. Snape stows his wand and turns on his heel, stalking right through the mass of Weasleys and out into the hallway.

“Six o’clock, Monday evening, Potter,” they hear him call before the door slams. Mrs Black takes the opportunity to resume her screeching. Bastard.

“Blasted…” Sirius mutters, hurrying out to stun the other portraits and rip her curtains closed.

“Harry?” Mrs Weasley asks. “What happened?”

“Snape,” Harry says, letting his lip curl. “His usual disparaging insinuations.”

“What was it _really_ about?” Ginny asks, stepping inside to let the rest of her brothers through.

Harry shrugs. “Really, just the usual.”

“Still arrogant, are you?” Ron asks. “Or has he picked up a thesaurus any time in the last five years?”

Hermione gives Ron an appreciative look, like a thought not thought before, and _dear god,_ Harry thinks, _let’s please not make life any more complicated than it already is._

“So you’re cured?” Sirius says, returning to the kitchen as Mrs Weasley helps Mr Weasley into a chair. “That’s fantastic news.”

“Yes, isn’t it!” says Mrs Weasley. “Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake’s got in its fangs, and Arthur’s learnt his lesson about dabbling in muggle medicine, _haven’t you, dear?”_

“Yes, Molly, dear,” Mr Weasley replies, sounding a little tired.

“On with dinner, then!” Mrs Weasley chimes, and hurries off to the pantry.

“What was that all about with six o’clock Monday, then?” George asks Harry.

“Yeah, he’s not planning to poison you, is he?” says Fred.

Harry sighs. “Occlumency lessons, apparently.”

“Oh!” Hermione says. “That’s good! Dumbledore must have figured out that that’s how he’s getting into your head.”

“Extra lessons with Snape? Good?” Ron says, aghast. “I’d rather have the nightmares, myself!”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Ginny mutters.

“I want to know what’s behind that door,” Harry says quietly. “It’s so close, now—”

“Maybe,” Fred says, looking quite serious, “maybe that’s what _he_ wants, too. Maybe he doesn’t know… _Maybe_ you’re helping him by looking in.”

“Whatever it is, Harry,” George adds, “I’m sure it’s something dangerous. Something he wants from you. You have to be careful. I don’t want you…”

“D’you think it’s the weapon?” Ron whispers.

“It could be,” Ginny says. 

“What are you lot whispering about over there?” Sirius asks loudly, and they all jump. “Best not be plotting against Snape without me!”

Mrs Weasley tuts. “I don’t want to hear any plots against Professor Snape, thank you! Now, Fred, George, come and help me with the vegetables.”

The twins make a show of sighing and drooping their shoulders before they shuffle off to help their mother. Ginny rolls her eyes and Hermione smiles.

######  _\- x -_

Harry doesn’t want to say goodbye on the morning they’re due back at Hogwarts. His chest feels heavy and uncomfortably choked with a terrible feeling, as if something bad is due to happen while they’re away. He looks at Sirius, who is once again tight with worry and restlessness, and the feeling only gets worse.

“Promise me you’ll stay inside,” Harry blurts. “We—I need you. Don’t get caught.”

Sirius smiles. “Don’t worry, Harry, I’ll behave myself. I suffered living here for over fifteen years, once. What’s a few more months?”

“Enough to drive you up the wall, is what we’re afraid of,” Remus says. “But don’t worry, Harry, we’ll keep him safe.”

Harry’s tongue darts out over his lip as he considers his words. “You too,” he says. “All of you.”

Sirius hugs him, and Harry flings his arms around his back and digs his nose into his shoulder. 

“You know how to call, if you want me,” Sirius murmurs in his ear. “Even if it’s about nothing in particular, I’ll be there. And you’re to stay safe as well, yes?”

“We will,” Harry says. He wonders if he should have crossed his fingers behind Sirius’ back.

“Come on, then,” Remus says, smiling to Tonks who hurries them out into the hallway. 

“Here’s to another go at giving Umbridge what she deserves?” Fred says, holding out a discreet fist to Harry. Harry grins and bumps it with his own.

“She won’t rest for months.”

“Too right she won’t,” George chuckles.

“Anything good planned for the first meeting back?” Ginny whispers as they watch Number Twelve disappear.

“Come along, you lot,” Tonks says.

“Probably not,” Harry tells her. “But then again, I was wondering if you could do a demonstration of your bat-bogey hex…”

######  _\- x -_

Harry pauses outside Snape’s office door, wishing that at that moment he could be anywhere else in the world. With Ron and Hermione in the common room would be brilliant. With George, anywhere, would be better. His heart still flutters at the thought, though his impending doom makes it a weak attempt.

He takes a deep breath, knocks, and enters.

The dungeon room is dingy, shadowy with the flickering candles. The walls are lined with shelves, all neatly boasting rows upon rows of carefully organised flasks and jars full of swirling potions, glittering liquids and suspended animal parts. In one corner is the door to the store cupboard that he’d been accused of pilfering from, and on the desk is Dumbledore’s large stone pensive, shallow and lined with runes and endless with billowing clouds of memories.

“Close the door behind you, Potter,” comes Sanpe’s nasally hair-raising voice.

Harry does as he’s told and, when prompted, sits in the chair on his side of Snape’s desk. Snape sits across from him, gazing at him in the usual, I-greatly-dislike-you-but-I’m-not-allowed-to-kill-you-yet way.

“Well Potter,” he says. “You know why you’re here. The headmaster has asked me to train you in occlumency. I can only hope that you prove to be more adept at this than you are at Potions.”

“Right.” Harry says. He tries to contain his look of disbelief. If Snape’s shoddy job at teaching is to blame, which it is, then he very much doubts he’ll be any better at it than he is Potions.

“This may not be an ordinary class, Potter, but you are still required to treat me with all the due respect you owe any of your professors in this school.”

Harry smiles briefly and sarcastically. “Yes, _sir.”_

When Snape stands him in the middle of the room and tells him he may defend himself with any means, Harry begins to wonder, in a detached sort of panic, what the hell all of this actually is.

######  _\- x -_

It’s everything. 

Everything at once, and one by one. 

It’s Harry talking to the snakes in the zoo. It’s Harry shoved into a cupboard by his aunt. It’s Harry in the common room writing letters to Sirius. It’s Harry crying himself to sleep in Number Four, Privet Drive.

It’s Voldemort in the chamber, Ginny lying on the floor. It’s going back in time and dementors by a lake. It’s photographs on his nightstand and the posters on Ron’s walls at home. It’s a hearty slap on the shoulder and a vision of Voldemort at King’s Cross station.

It’s curling up in the common room with drinks and warmth and laughter. It’s chasing Ron down the Whomping Willow and a hug from his godfather. It’s snogging George in the Room of Requirement and it’s every touch before it, and Harry _fights._

 _“Get out!”_ he screams, but it feels like drowning.

They’re running up the stairs now, hand-in-hand in Grimmauld Place. Sneaking past Ron’s and Ginny’s doors to vacant rooms, trying not to touch anything that could be cursed. 

Snape snaps back to himself abruptly, and there are tears streaming down Harry’s face.

“That isn’t for you,” he whispers, and his voice is hoarse.

Snape doesn’t care. 

######  _\- x -_

“I think we know why You-Know-Who was happy last night, Harry,” Hermione says at breakfast the next morning. She lies the Daily Prophet down on the table and smoothes it out, uncovering ten black and white photographs of screeching, insolent, or irritatingly calm Death Eaters. 

_Antonin Dolohov,_ Harry sees written beneath one of a horrifying wizard. _Convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett._

Ron makes a small noise as Harry’s fingers brush over the names. Harry swallows and looks up at him, though he looks more angry than anything else. Turning back to the paper Harry is drawn, mostly, to the screaming Bellatrix Lestrange in the bottom corner.

_Convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom._

They read through the article with mounting disbelief. Of _course_ the Ministry were going to blame Sirius. Of _course_ things were on the steep decline, what with their eyes tightly blindfolded. Harry wonders how Percy’s doing. He hopes he’s okay.

“I’m going to send a letter,” Hermione announces, lifting her legs and spinning quickly over the bench to stand up. Her hair hits Ron in the face and he bats it away. “It, well… I don’t know whether… But it’s worth trying, isn’t it? And I’m the only one who can.” She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and hurries from the hall.

“What’s got Granger in such a hurry?” Fred asks, dropping into her vacated seat.

“Sending a letter, apparently,” Ron grumbles. “I _hate_ it when she does that.”

“What, sends a letter?” asks Lee, sitting down with George next to Harry. Harry smiles and George smiles back.

“No,” Ron says. “When she runs off like that. Would it kill her to tell us what she’s up to, for once? No! But does she? Also no! It would only take her about ten more seconds—”

“So, Harry,” George says, leaving Fred to deal with Ron’s prattling. “Seen the new Hogsmeade dates in the common room? Funny day to land on, isn’t it? Sounds like they engineered it that way.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “February fourteenth, right?” He frowns. “Why’s that funny?”

George shrugs, picking some toast out of the basket. “Feels a bit convenient, doesn’t it?”

“What’s on—? Oh.” Harry feels like smacking himself. “Oh, yeah. Bit funny, isn’t it.”

“Well,” George continues, obviously laughing at him, “we were thinking… _I_ was thinking, maybe you’d like to join us in the Three Broomsticks for lunch?”

“Who’s we?” Harry asks. There are those funny feelings in his chest again, the ones he does his best to ignore.

“Well, Fred, Lee and I,” George says. “We were going to discuss business, and I thought you might like to have a listen in. Throw in your ideas, have a little fun, you know?”

Harry smiles. “That, er, that sounds great.”

“Oh, and we should go to Honeydukes beforehand, see if we can get our hands on any of those new fudge flavours they’ve come up with over Christmas.” Thankfully, George doesn’t seem to be noticing his nervousness as he crunches into his breakfast. “I wonder if we can get any of those soap drops into that Toad’s porridge one morning…”

“Are we going the normal way or the fun way?” Harry asks.

George grins. “I think we’ll go and be boring commoners, for a change. I’ve heard overground is a much more scenic route.”

“That’s only a rumour, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, would you? Though I bet it’s a little bit more spacious than those tunnels.”

“Probably.”

“Oi,” says Ron. “What are you two snickering about over there?”

George flicks his crust at him. “None of your beeswax, darling Ronniekins.”

“Yeah, careful where you’re sticking that nose of yours from now on,” Fred snorts. “Might actually live to regret it one day.”

“Oh, _god,”_ Ron groans, bashing his forehead against the table and making everything jump and rattle. “Please no.”

“Fred!” Harry splutters, feeling himself turn red again even as he tries not to laugh.

“Oh, and Project Silverware is a go,” Lee informs them. 

“What the hell is Project Silverware?” Ron asks the table surface.

“Silverware?” Harry asks. “Like knives and forks and stuff?”

Fred grimaces. “Well, Lee came up with the name. He was close enough. Remember those things we showed you at Headquarters? The silver, shiny ones?”

Harry only has to think for a moment before he remembers. “Brilliant. That’s a terrible name for it, though.”

“Hey!”

“Well, we can see her wearing them,” George says. “Let’s see how it turns out, yeah?”

“Three sickles on two weeks before she notices,” Harry says.

“I make it three,” Fred grins.

######  _\- x -_

Educational Decree Number Twenty-six comes along in perfect time to demonstrate the definite Weasley pranking prowess. With a slew of new incriminating, illicit acts to perform, the buzz about Umbridge’s newly-acquired madness of misfortune spreads quickly throughout the school. When Lee yells out in class, “Exploding Snap’s got nothing to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That’s not information relating to your subject!” prompted by her attack on the twins’ game at the back of the class, the reports from every single witness indicate a whole host of rife smelling things and a number of popping silver buttons. 

No longer feeling able, under the decree, to dissuade them from any more daring ventures, Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Sinistra wander idly by as Fred, George and Harry sneak into the kitchens to ask their favours of Dobby. The next morning is a chaotic one, what with Umbridge floating up and away into the charmed ceiling, shrieking in terror.

Harry catches Dumbledore’s eye for the first time in weeks, and he winks. Harry rolls his eyes.

Lee returns to the common room that evening with a heavily bleeding hand. Harry steps up to him with Hermione and Fred, who repeats the spell he’d used with Harry. Hermione fetches her murtlap essence at Harry’s gentle nudge, and Fred takes him up to their dorm.

“How many detentions is it worth to trick her into saying ‘You-Know-Who’, d’you think?” Harry asks with a wry smile.

 _“No!”_ cry Hermione, Ron and Neville as one. Maybe not, then.

Harry sits up late, that night. He tries to read through the Defence books from his godparents, but the words are a fuzzy static under wandlight and his mind drifts so easily away from them. Eventually, he takes out the Marauder’s Map instead and slips on his trainers and his father’s cloak. He drops the book on the bed and holds his wand alight beneath the cloak, wandering down corridor after corridor until his mind thinks about settling.

He stops, abruptly, as he turns into the seventh floor corridor, the one at the end of which is the Room of Requirement. A lonely pair of footprints on the map, stationary in one of the moonlit window recesses, marks the sole adventuring of one George Weasley. 

Harry taps the map hastily and mutters, “Mischief managed,” before stowing it away and throwing back the hood of his cloak, walking quickly towards the third alcove.

“George?” he whispers. “George, is that you?”

“Harry?” George whispers back, head turning so quickly he almost tips forward off the half wall underneath the rafters. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be out! What if you get caught?”

Harry grins. “Since when have you cared about being caught?” George shakes his head but smiles, and Harry hoists himself up to join him on the wall, flicking his cloak back over his shoulders so he’s more visible. “And look, I’m perfectly capable of evading capture.”

“That’s bloody brilliant, that is,” George scoffs. “Can’t believe you haven’t let us borrow it before.”

“That’s because you’ve never asked _nicely,”_ Harry retorts, and throws his nose in the air.

“Oh yeah?” George’s eyes, beautiful bronze in half a shadow, glint with promise enough to set off the squirming of butterflies in Harry’s stomach. “Would you like to show me how that’s done?”

“I—” Harry manages, before they both freeze at the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor behind Harry. 

“Quick,” Harry hisses, throwing himself forwards and unceremoniously between George’s pulled-up knees so he can throw the cloak around the both of them. They shuffle quickly together, pressing chest-to-chest and holding their breaths in anticipation as they panic over whether they’re properly covered. 

They both watch, frozen, with eyelashes each fluttering against cheeks, as Hermione strolls past them on her prefect’s rounds. She somehow looks both alert and terribly bored, and probably like she’d take the points off them just for something to do. Harry turns to George at the same time George turns to him, both with their lips pressed in tight lines in a good attempt at holding in their laughter. 

They’re hiding from _Hermione._ It makes him feel all of eleven again.

Hermione’s steps echo away around the next corner, and George lets out a loud, buzzing breath from between his lips and chokes. Harry collapses forward in silent fits, more for the absurdity of the situation than any actual humour. He can feel hands on his sides and sliding around to his back, pulling him into George’s chest as they cackle into each other’s shoulders.

“You’re wonderful,” George says as they get their breath back. “You know that?”

“You’re pretty wonderful too,” Harry says, resting their foreheads together and bumping their noses. And then George tilts his head up and brushes his lips over Harry’s, and they find themselves quite quietly happy to stay hidden away in their alcove, warm where they lie against each other.

######  _\- x -_

“Right, so, I know a lot of you have been very eager to learn this spell,” Harry says, standing in his usual place at the front of the group. He twists his wand between the fingers of both hands as he flicks his gaze over each of their faces. “I have to tell you, it probably won’t be easy. It’ll probably take loads of tries and you’ll get really fed up with it, but I _know_ that all of you can do it. I’m going to be there until every single one of you has it down. So, um, I think it’ll be easier to explain if I tell you how I learnt it—some of you seem to be very interested in that, anyway.”

Everyone looks up at him expectantly. Hermione grins.

“Professor Lupin was the one who taught me how to produce a patronus charm, back when we were in our third year. You’ll probably remember that one, what with all the dementors hanging about everywhere. I practically begged him to teach me after I fell off my broom during that match against Hufflepuff, and it turned out he was friends with my parents so he understood why they affected me so much. 

“Anyway, when I practised back then we had a boggart to cast it on, because, as I’m sure you know, mine would always turn into a dementor. We won’t be doing that now because there really are too many of us and it’s a bit dangerous, but also because you’d all have different boggarts, and I’m not sure springing a patronus against Snape in a dress would be quite the same.”

A small bubble of laughter ripples through the group, and Neville grins sheepishly when Dean elbows him in the side.

“The first thing Remus says you need to do is think of your happiest memory,” Harry continues. “You need to be able to draw strength from it to help you fight back. The first few times I tried I used the memory of first riding a broom, but that wasn’t good enough. It was happy, but sort of superficial. I’d probably failed a hundred times or more before I got round to a memory I had of—well, I don’t even know if it _is_ a memory, just sensations, sound, smell, that sort of thing. It’s not even something you could say is completely happy, but it’s something strong and peaceful and comforting, which is what you need to build on. It was that memory that got me my first patronus, even if the later ones came easier in the moment.”

The room is silent when he finally finishes his story. He’s on the receiving end of a lot of awed and eager eyes, and is suddenly very eager himself to get them going.

“The second part of the charm is the incantation.” Harry pauses, readies his wand and points it somewhere over their heads, making small circles as he says, clearly, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

A large shield stretches from his wand, growing and arching over them all as he continues the little spiral motion. A number of gasps whisper around him, every one of his friends turning their heads to look around them.

“Can you not make a corporeal one?” shouts out Terry Boot, in what Harry assumes to be purely academic interest but is annoying all the same.

“Later,” he says, and lets the charm fade. Little sparkles of silvery white drip down to the floor as they vanish. Harry can see Susan trying to catch them in her hands as they fall. Luna starts to clap, quickly followed by everyone else, and he laughs and shakes his head.

“Come on, you lot!” he says. “Don’t you want to get started?”

All of them leap to their feet with excited grins, chattering amongst themselves as they spread out into the room. Parvati, Lavender and Hannah are whispering away to each other in one corner, while Alicia and Katie seem to be steering Angelina towards Hermione and Ginny’s side of the room. Harry lets them get on with it, and is soon smiling at the attempts breaking out across the floor. 

“It’s more of a circle than a flick,” he tells Cho, showing her how he rotates his wrist. She smiles and tries again, and gasps to Cedric when she makes a couple of silvery sparks.

“Ron, you look like you’re trying to set Smith’s trousers on fire,” he hisses when he gets around to him. Katie and Alicia snort nearby, and Ron shrugs.

“Who would blame me,” he mutters, but smooths out the frown on his face to something a little less angry.

Anthony Goldstein tugs on Boot’s jumper as Harry passes behind them, leaning in to whisper, “Oi, Terry, what are the words again? I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

Boot gives in with an exaggerated sigh and turns to help him before Harry really thinks to offer his assistance, so he continues on over to Padma to keep her from turning Neville’s hair blue with her haphazard wand waving. There’s a lot of intermittent shrieking, usually accompanied by faint sparks or mist from the perpetrators’ wands. Harry isn’t surprised by the incessant debate over everyone’s potential patronus forms—he’s rather excited himself to find out what his friends’ are, after all.

“Professor Potter!” comes the next shout. Harry peers over to Fred, George and Lee, who are grinning and waving him over.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, “it makes me sound _way_ too old.”

“I’ll tell Moony you said that,” George says.

Harry gasps. “You _would not.”_

“Oh, he would,” Fred snickers. “Anyway, we can’t seem to get our _wandgrips_ right. Care to help?”

A smile twitches at the corner of Harry’s mouth. He holds up his wand and steps in between them, demonstrating the action slowly and visibly. Fred nods, copies him, and buggers off to show Lee, so Harry turns his attention back to George.

“Like this?” George asks, getting it so spectacularly wrong that it’s a challenge for the both of them to keep a straight face. Harry ducks under and gently lowers his erratic arm, settling subtly into the curve of his chest as he directs him.

“What’s the happiest thing you can think of?” he asks. The rumble of George’s laugh shivers through his back and sets his spine alight.

“I can think of a few, right now.”

“That’s good. Try casting it.”

George circles his wrist calmly and cries, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

They both gasp with delight when a small disk of brilliant white mist spins out from his wandtip, growing slowly and steadily until it’s the size of the Black family serving platter in the kitchen sideboard at Grimmauld Place. Harry drops his hand from George’s wrist and beams.

“That’s cheating, you two!” calls Ginny. Harry glances down to her, past all the other blatantly staring faces, but she’s smiling widely too and doesn’t seem all that put out. Hermione, on the other hand, looks only mutinously close to smiling, and otherwise highly unimpressed. (She’s not fooling anyone.)

The patronus fades when George lets out a bellowing laugh of glee, and Harry finds himself lifted by the waist and spun kicking through the air.

“Oi!” he yelps. “George! Put me down!”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” George says, dropping him back to his feet and bowing lowly. “Was that too unsightly of me?”

“I have a reputation to uphold,” Harry tells him, though he doesn’t think _he’s_ fooling anyone, either.

######  _\- x -_

They find Fred and Lee behind a bookshelf when they’re sneaking around after the meeting.

“Shit!” Harry whispers, dragging George away before he can cackle and start making fun. “I thought he was going out with Angelina!”

“Apparently they never really _talked_ about making anything of it,” George tells him. “It was only one date, he said. Don’t believe _that_ for a second, but hey ho… What can you do.”

Harry twists his mouth and says, after a moment, “But that was _our_ hiding room.”

George laughs and sneaks him past Seamus and Dean’s quite spectacular row in the common room and into his empty sixth-year dorm. He finds out later that Kenneth Towler is safely in the hospital wing with a bad case of the Puking Pastilles.

######  _\- x -_

“Sometimes showering is really hard,” Neville says abruptly, the next evening. 

Ron is asleep in the bed between them, snoring gently, and Seamus and Dean are busy snogging an apology to each other downstairs. Harry looks up from Quidditch Through the Ages to see him lying simply on his back and staring into his bed canopy. 

“Sometimes getting up for it’s too much effort. I never did it every day as a child—Gran always said my skin’s too sensitive for it. After that... Some days it’s just easier to use charms, even when I feel terrible. I’d hate to work out how to deal with it the muggle way.”

“I don’t think they do,” Harry says quietly. “Deal with it, I mean.”

Neville quirks a tiny smile. “I’m sure some of them do.”

“Sometimes charms are easier,” Harry says after a long pause. He thinks of his own terrible slips, the long stretches where it feels like nothing can persuade him out of his bed or his armchair to do _anything._ He thinks about how he hadn’t even noticed someone else clinging desperately to the sides of the same boat with him on this terrible, choppy sea. His limbs feel leaden just at the thought. 

“I guess that’s what they’re meant for,” he says. “No harm in using what’s there.”

“That’s true,” Neville agrees. Harry wonders if his sea has calmed any, recently. He wonders if they cling to each other will the fallout come down on them any less harshly. 

“I’m glad someone invented the teeth-brushing spell.”

Harry laughs. “Me too, Nev. Me too.”

######  _\- x -_

“I’m not in love with him,” Harry says irritably.

“What?” Hermione asks, looking stricken. “But I—we—“

“Not _yet,”_ he clarifies. “Not yet, I mean. Look, we’ve barely been going out for a month, all right? I don’t want to... I want to be able to consider everything properly.”

“Oh,” she says, and her smile returns. “Well, that’s—that’s really rather responsible of you—“

“And here I thought I was going to have to break your legs for breaking my brother’s heart,” says a voice from behind them. Harry starts violently and turns to see Fred, who’s watching them with his hands in his pockets and a bright grin on his face. “You don’t half pick your moments, do you Harry?”

Behind him is George, as usual, though he’s turned away from them and hiding his face in his hands. Fred leans back and pats his shoulder fondly.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, feeling rather like he’d be better off digging a hole to hide in.

“No harm done, is it Georgie?”

“No,” George replies, still muffled by his hands. “No harm.”

“Oh my god, you great big sap—”

“All right, you lot,” Ron grumbles. “You do know Snape wants this handed in in about ten hours, right?”

Fred snorts. “Keep your knickers on, Ron, we only came to ask Harry if he’d do us a favour.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at them, but Harry would honestly do just about anything to move on from his mortification. “What’s up?” he asks.

“We were wondering if we could borrow your map for a spell,” Fred replies. “See, we wanted to have a look about Umbridge or Filch’s offices, see what we could do…”

“I’ll go get it,” Harry tells them, and nearly upsets his inkwell in his haste to run away. He can hear them talking behind him, so he races up to the dorm, ferrets out the map from his nightstand and slips quickly back down to the common room. George has, apparently, recovered himself a bit, but Harry is having so much trouble meeting anyone’s eyes that he barely notices.

“Just don’t get strung up by your ankles, yeah?” he mutters as he pushes the parchment into Fred’s hands.

“That’s just taking all the fun out of life,” George says. 

Ron grimaces. “I don’t need to know what you’re into, so bugger off already.”

Harry hates him.

######  _\- x -_

“What were you thinking of?” Harry asks, when they’re hidden behind the one-eyed witch on the third floor of the school.

“Hm?” George asks. His fingers don’t pause in their stroking through Harry’s hair. “When?”

“When you made that patronus the other day.”

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Not much.”

######  _\- x -_

Having crept up on all of them amidst the teetering mountains of work, the DA meetings, and regular classes with Snape, Harry is startled rather rudely when he wakes up one Saturday to realise it’s already February fourteenth.

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs, rolling out of bed to stare blearily at the contents of his trunk. There are a number of t-shirts piled on top that he picks up and discards before digging up his newest, least-battered pair of jeans and the black polo neck he’d borrowed from Hermione over Christmas and had accidentally forgotten to return. Ron is eyeing him as he struggles, half asleep, into his quidditch jersey and trousers.

“Do you have a date today, Harry?” Dean asks, sitting on the edge of Seamus’ bed and grinning. “It’s unlike you to actually look at what you put on.”

Harry snorts. “Not really. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Neville asks.

Harry grimaces. “Er, no. Well I said I’d meet Fred, George and Lee to talk about something. Not sure what they want with me, honestly.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ron’s mouth twitching. He doesn’t say anything on the way down to breakfast, but he does elbow Harry when they pass Fred and Lee leaving the Great Hall.

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry mutters.

“Didn’t say anything,” Ron says, but he’s still grinning.

“About time!” Hermione says when a familiar brown owl lands on the table in front of her. “If it hadn’t come today…” She retrieves the letter and opens it eagerly, holding out a crust to the owl and smiling wider and wider as she reads through the note.

“Listen, Harry,” she says suddenly, looking up from the note. “This is really important, so d’you think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks sometime around midday?”

“Er, I think so,” he says. “I said I’d have lunch there with the others.”

“Well they can join if they must,” she says. “As long as you come and find me.”

“Okay,” Harry says, unsure. “Why?”

“I haven’t got time to explain now, I have to answer this quickly.” She jumps from her seat and her minimally eaten breakfast, rushing off with the letter and her bag clutched in her hands.

“You coming out to Hogsmeade?” Harry asks Ron, but he shakes his head and grimaces.

“I can’t get out at all today; Angelina wants a full day’s training, as if it’s going to help. You should see Sloper and Kirke—they’re pathetic, even worse than me. I don’t see why she won’t just let me resign.”

“You’re good when you’re on form,” Harry says, feeling a little huffy. He can’t get out there at all—Umbridge has confiscated his broom _forever,_ or had Ron forgotten? “Katie was telling me you’ve been improving.”

Ron sighs. “Sometimes I think she’s the only one who really believes that.”

Harry nudges him. “Well, at least you have someone, yeah? And you always have us.”

“I wish you were back,” Ron groans, and shovels a few more forkfuls of baked beans into his mouth before he lets Harry proclaim them finished.

He walks with Harry into the Entrance Hall while Harry fumbles to pull his coat on. Fred and George are already there, leaning against the wall by the doors and laughing to each other.

“Good luck, little Ronnie!” Fred says when Ron waves them goodbye.

“Good luck!” Harry calls after him. “Are we waiting on Lee?”

“There’s only one thing you can ever trust Lee to be on time for,” George says. “D’you know what that is?”

“Quidditch?” Harry guesses.

“Quidditch,” Fred agrees, smirking.

George snickers. “I’m pretty sure he just likes watching you fly, Freddie.”

“Who could blame him?” Fred replies.

“Oh yeah,” Harry says, “Hermione said she needed me to find her in Rosmerta’s about midday, but I’ve no idea what for. She said it was important, had a letter from someone or something. Is that all right?”

“Ooh, is Granger plotting?” Fred says. “I’d love to sit in on that if she is.”

“She said you lot could come along. God knows what it’ll be.”

“Sounds great,” George says, smiling wickedly. “I hope it’s another up yours to Umbridge.”

“Am I late?” calls Lee as he comes running up to them.

“No more than usual,” Fred tells him. “Shall we make a move?”

“Let’s,” George says. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and knocks an elbow against Harry’s. “Ladies first.”

“Off you go then,” Harry laughs, and George grins back.

Despite his original apprehensions, Harry finds he has plenty to chat to the seventh-years about. They swing from talk about Sinistra’s impromptu-nap-inducing rambling to a short but intense debate on the Arrows’ place in the League, to popular rumours concerning Ernie Macmillan and whether or not he’s had his hand up Megan Jones’ skirt.

“Could’ve sworn he was after that Li girl in Ravenclaw,” Lee says.

“Why do you know so much about fifth-year drama?” Harry grumbles. “Don’t you have your own to gossip about?”

“Nah,” says Fred. “NEWT year’s boring.”

Harry gives him a look. “You _are_ the drama, more like.”

“I think Warrington and Davies shagging in the changing rooms is pretty good drama,” says George.

Harry tips his head back to the sky. “Jesus Christ.”

“I honestly don’t think I’ll touch anything in there ever again,” Lee says.

“I don’t want to hear another _word_ about the quidditch changing rooms,” Harry groans. Fred cackles and slaps him on the back.

“Come on, spoil sport, Hogsmeade up ahead! Last one there buys lunch!”

Never let it be said that Fred and George aren’t dirty rotten _cheats._ Both of them are sprinting off before Fred’s even finished what he’s saying, and neither of them are above flinging shoelace-tangling jinxes over their shoulders as they go. Harry and Lee stumble after them with shouts of protest, and scowl when they stop at the top of the road and turn back to jeer at them. Harry collides with George’s shoulder and keeps going, dragging him towards the shops by the arm.

“Come on, you’re buying us Honeydukes’ for that!”

“What a brilliant idea, Harry,” says Lee, shoving Fred after them. “I’ve been wanting some more of those butterfly wings!”

The shop is as crowded as it always is, but they pile in anyway, laughing and not particularly mindful of the sticky-handed, overexcited third-years. Harry almost looks around for Hermione, as if she’d be seen dead in such a shop without him and Ron to push the blame onto. 

Instead he weaves his way through to the display with the new season’s fudge flavours, including parsnip (pass), dahlia and sage (also pass), and dried strawberry with lemongrass. He shrugs and drops a few cubes of the third one into his paper bag, along with the vanilla and violet he always likes and some candied orange and hazelnut.

“You should try the beetroot, coconut and spearmint,” George says, grinning. “Or the linen and carbonara one.”

Harry snorts. “Unlike you, I don’t actually hate my tastebuds, thanks. Definite pass.”

“You need to start living life on the edge more, young Potter!”

“I already live life on the edge,” Harry tells him. “The edge of my sanity.”

He laughs. “I thought you lost _that_ ages ago!”

“So did I, but I recently found out it’s just been stretched so thin it’s see-through.”

They make their way around the shop, George grabbing a tube of Soap-Sud Buds like he’d threatened and rattling it in Harry’s face while he laughs. Harry picks up a couple of Peppermint Toads, a packet of Drooble’s and some Pumpkin Pencils before he shoves his bag into George’s hands. He waits until George is fully distracted before sneaking off and picking up a small, simple red box of chocolates and several flavour-changing lollipops.

“I wouldn’t have taken you as the type, my dear,” says Madam Flume when he asks her to tie them up with the Valentine’s ribbon. “She must be special.”

Harry blushes and ducks his head. “Yeah, I think so.”

She gives him a fond, knowing smile as he slips the package into his pocket and wishes her a good day, tumbling back out into the chilly slush to find the others.

“Get lost in there?” Fred teases.

“He can’t see over the heads of all those thirteen-year-olds,” Lee snickers.

“Shut up, you,” Harry says, punching him lightly on the arm. “Just because you’re all made of toffee.”

“And as sweet as!”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Harry,” George says, handing him his bag of sweets.

Harry bites his lip, smiling when he sees the numerous additions George has somehow managed to make while he wasn’t looking, and digs out his own present.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“God, you two are sickening.”

“Ugh, Fred, I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Not over me, you won’t!”

“Thank you,” George says, beaming. “You know you didn’t have to, though.”

Harry waves him off. “I wanted to.”

“Are we _going_ to find Granger or are you two gonna hang around and smile at each other all day?”

Hermione is indeed already seated at a table in the Three Broomsticks when they traipse inside, just caught out in the beginnings of what’s sure to become a downpour. They shake the damp and the snow from their shoulders and amble over to her, making it most of the way over before Harry realises she’s not alone—the unlikeliest pair of drinking buddies Harry could ever imagine are accompanying her: Daily Prophet slander scribe (sorry, _journalist)_ Rita Skeeter, and Luna Lovegood.

“Ooh, this’s got to be good,” Fred mutters, smirking and rubbing his hands together. “I’ll go get us some drinks, yeah?”

Fred flits off to the bar, leaving Harry, George and Lee with nothing else to do but sit themselves around Hermione’s sheltered little table.

“You’re early, Harry!” Hermione says cheerfully, beaming at George and Lee.

“Er, yeah,” Harry says, making sure to keep his eye on Skeeter and her bloody quill. 

“So, what’s this all about?”


	11. Fifth Year, VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl I forgot what was in this chapter and almost choked when I got to proofreading it  
> Enjoy!

“Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me what’s going on when you arrived, Harry,” says Rita Skeeter. She takes a large and unattractive slurp of her drink, before snapping at Hermione, “I suppose I’m allowed to _talk_ to him, am I?”

“Depends on whether it’s relevant,” George says.

Hermione smiles with cold satisfaction. “Exactly.”

Skeeter ignores his friends to better assess Harry with the horrible, calculating gaze she carries so easily. He feels rather like he’s back at the castle, with people whispering after him everywhere he goes.

“Sorry to interrupt your day, Harry, but I thought this was rather important,” Hermione says.

“Oh?” Skeeter hums. “A date? With a girl?”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” says Fred, returning with their drinks. Harry takes his—a hot chocolate, one of his confessed favourites—and tries to hide himself behind it.

“Pretty girl, is she, Harry?” Skeeter presses. Harry can see her slipping her hand back into the handbag hidden at her side, even if the rustle of parchment wasn’t a big enough giveaway.

“It’s none of _your_ business who Harry’s been with,” Hermione huffs. “So you can put that away right now.”

“What makes you think I’ve been on a date?” Harry asks petulantly. He wouldn’t mind, but he hadn’t really, had he?

“Because you’re covered in pink glitter from Honeydukes,” George tells him, reaching out to pick bits out of his hair and trying plainly not to smile. Harry mock scowls and ducks away from his hands.

“So, what’s going on?” he asks again, because Hermione still hasn’t explained anything.

“You know, I’m sure this would be much more of an interesting story than whatever you’ve—”

“One more word about Harry’s love life and the deal’s off and that’s a promise,” Hermione snaps.

“What deal?” Skeeter asks. “You haven’t mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy, you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days…” She inhales deeply, as if willing herself to stay collected.

“You’d do well to stop calling Hermione names,” Harry hears Fred mutter. Hermione ignores him, waving her hand in front of Skeeter impatiently.

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write more horrible stories about Harry and me. Find someone who cares, why don’t you?”

“They’ve run plenty of nasty stories about Harry already this year, without my help,” Skeeter says, flicking a look at him over the rim of her glass and adding, “How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?”

“Angry, of course!” Hermione says harshly. “He’s told the Minister the truth but the Minister is too much of an idiot to believe him.”

“So you’re actually sticking to it, are you?” Skeeter says. “All this nonsense saying He Who Must Not Be Named is back? You believe Dumbledore’s insane ramblings that he’s back and Harry being the sole witness?”

“I wasn’t the sole witness,” Harry snarls. “There were a dozen odd Death Eaters there at the same time—do you want their names?”

“I’d love them,” Skeeter says breathlessly. She scrambles for her quill and parchment, muttering excitedly about headlines, accusations and photographs, and has the tip of her quill halfway to her mouth before she deflates with an acerbic sigh. “But of course, Little Miss Perfect wouldn’t want the story out there, would she?”

Lee leans ever so slightly into Fred and mumbles something that sounds like, “What the _hell_ does Granger have on her?”

“Actually,” Hermione says, looking pleased, “that’s exactly what Little Miss Perfect _does_ want.”

Everyone turns to stare at Hermione. Well, everyone except Luna, who’s singing Weasley is our King sweetly under her breath and stirring her drink with a cocktail onion on a stick.

“You _want_ me to report what he says about He Who Must Not Be Named?” whispers Skeeter.

“Yes, I do,” Hermione affirms. “The true story. All the facts, exactly as Harry reports them. He’ll give you the details, names, whathaveyou, and you write it as-is.”

“The Prophet wouldn’t print it,” Skeeter tells her bluntly. “In case you haven’t noticed, nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone thinks he’s delusional—now, if you let me write the story from that angle—”

“That’s not the point though, is it?” George says harshly. “We want Harry to be heard, not ridiculed. That’s why Hermione brought you in, isn’t it?”

“Quite right,” Hermione agrees. “We don’t need another tale about how Harry’s lost his marbles, we’ve had plenty already, thank you.”

“There’s no market for what you want,” Skeeter says. 

“You mean, the Prophet won’t print it because Fudge won’t let them,” Lee says, pointing his stirring rod at her and flicking her all over with… whatever the hell that purple stuff is.

Skeeter gives each of them a sour look before leaning in across the table. “All right,” she says, “Fudge is leaning on the Prophet. But it all comes down to the same thing, in the end; they won’t print a story that puts Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it, and this last Azkaban breakout has people worried enough. People don’t want to be hearing about You-Know-Who.”

“So the Prophet tells people what they _want_ to hear, is it?” Fred asks, leaning back in his chair with one of his Cheshire cat grins.

Skeeter sits up and drains her firewhisky, slamming the glass back down onto the table gracelessly. “The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly child.”

“Oh, we know all about business,” George mutters.

“My dad thinks it’s an awful paper,” says Luna, speaking up for the first time since they’d sat down. She gazes up at Skeeter while she sucks idly on her cocktail onion. “He publishes important stories that he thinks the public needs to hear. He doesn’t care about making money.”

Skeeter frowns and gives Luna the once over. “Pale, blonde, and definitely scatty. You’re Lovegood’s daughter, surely.”

“Yes,” Luna smiles. “He’s the editor of the Quibbler.”

Skeeter snorts so loudly that people at nearby tables jump and look around in alarm. “Important stories, eh?” she sniggers. “I could compost my gardens with the contents of that rag.”

“You should watch what you say around here, _Rita,”_ Fred says evenly, but there is no missing the very dangerous threat under his tone.

“Well,” Hermione says, “this is your chance to change the tone of it a bit, isn’t it? Luna says her father’s quite happy to take Harry’s interview, so that’s who’ll be publishing it.”

“The Quibbler!” cackles Skeeter. “You think _anyone_ will take him seriously if he’s published in the Quibbler?”

“Some won’t,” Hermione shrugs, “but the Prophet’s version of the Azkaban breakout left a lot to be desired—and answered. I think there will be a lot of people looking for a better answer elsewhere, even if it is published in a rather more unconventional magazine.”

Luna beams at her, and Harry smiles gently. Skeeter doesn’t say anything for a long moment, studying Hermione for, quite possibly, the darkest secrets of all the universe.

“All right,” she says eventually. “Let’s say for the moment I’ll do it. What kind of fee am I going to get?”

“I don’t think Daddy exactly pays people to write in the magazine,” Luna says. “They do it because it’s an honour and they get to see their name in print.”

Fred, George and Lee snicker as Skeeter turns on Hermione with a face like she’s chewed a billywig. “I’m supposed to do this for _free?”_

“Well, yes,” Hermione says simply, taking a sip of her butterbeer. “Otherwise, I’m sure the Prophet would give you a lot for an unregistered animagus’ view of a life sentence in Azkaban.”

All three of the boys beside Harry lean back with wide eyes. Lee whistles lowly.

“Okay, that’s dirt.”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice then, do I?” Skeeter sniffs. She fishes her writing utensils out again, though Hermione stops her and hands her a normal quill and inkwell. The look on Skeeter’s face turns murderous.

“Okay, Harry,” Hermione says, turning to him with a serious expression. “Are you ready to tell people what happened?”

Harry takes a deep breath and looks down at his fingers as they trace the grain of the table. He almost jumps when George’s hand sneaks its way onto his knee, but he smiles shakily and looks up instead. 

“Where would you like me to start?”

Hermione holds out her hand and says, “Fire away, Rita.”

######  _\- x -_

Harry feels like he talks for about an hour.

It isn’t the easiest of experiences, what with trying to recall specific details from memories hazed by excruciating pain and fear. Even Luna looks a little taken aback at some of the things he mentions, while a quiet stream of murmured swearing hovers near the other end of the table. The hand on his knee is a very warm and welcome comfort.

“That was a bloody brilliant idea of Granger’s, wasn’t it?” says Lee after the three women leave them to it. “She has that Rita right on the tipping point.”

“Devilishly devious and delightful on a whim, she is,” Fred agrees.

“Don’t anyone start mooning after her,” Harry says with a tired smile. “I’m afraid I don’t think you’re her type.”

“No worries, I’m sure she’ll survive without our enlightening existences,” George says. “Now, weren’t we going to get something to eat?”

Fred and Lee shuffle around the table while George takes their orders to the bar. Harry watches them and their sudden turn of vibrant enthusiasm.

“So,” he says, “what exactly was it you wanted to talk about?”

“The business!” Fred says, taking his new drink gleefully from George and gulping at it. “These are exciting times.”

“As a benefactor, investor-type person, we thought you’d like to know what’s going on,” George explains.

“And I’m just here because I’m nosy,” says Lee, and cheerses the lot of them.

“What’s the news, then?” Harry asks, looking across the table to Fred and back to George.

“We, my friend, are looking at real estate,” Fred announces. Harry’s eyebrows jump towards his hairline.

“You’re _joking!_ Already?”

“Business has been booming,” George says proudly. “The Headless Hats have been a pretty good gag, but people are still really going for the confectionery—not least because it gets them out of toad impression lessons.”

Harry grins. “I’m not surprised. Has anything caught your eye yet?”

“There’s this place on one of the corners in Diagon,” Fred says, lowering his voice. “It’s pretty prominent, and I think we’d be good on it if we bought it. George is already throwing around branding and design ideas.”

“It’s still hypothetical for now, but it never hurts to be prepared,” George says.

“All of my plans tend to go to shit the second we get started,” Harry snorts. “I’m afraid I won’t be of any help with a track record like that.”

Fred laughs and waves his hand vaguely. “No worries, Troublemaker Extraordinaire, you have OWLs to focus on.”

“You have NEWTs,” Harry points out.

“Less important, if we can get this up and running,” George argues.

“You _know_ your mother won’t like that.”

“We’ll just have to throw you at her and hope it’s a good enough distraction then, won’t we?”

“That’s if there’s anything left of me by the time Umbridge is finished.”

“Oh, we’ll pay _her_ back in double,” Fred says, and the very promising, mean glint in his eye is most certainly mirrored in his brother's. Harry thinks Umbridge might just be signing her life away with each and every new Decree she hangs on that wall.

######  _\- x -_

“Ron and Ginny around?” Fred asks, pulling a chair up to Harry’s table and almost sitting on it. Harry grimaces at his star chart and shakes his head. 

“Good. We were watching their practise, and they’re useless without us. They’re going to be slaughtered.”

“Ginny wasn’t half bad,” George argues, leaning on the back of Harry’s chair. His fingers brush the hair at the back of Harry’s neck, and he shivers. “Actually, I dunno how she got so good, seeing how we never let her play with us.”

“She’s been breaking into your broom shed since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn while you weren’t looking,” Hermione says from behind her Great Wall of Books. 

“Oh,” George says, flummoxed. “Well, that would explain it. I think I’m actually quite proud of her for that.”

“Has Ron saved a goal yet?” Hermione asks.

“He can if he doesn’t think anyone’s watching him,” Fred grumbles, knee bouncing. “All we have to do now is ask everyone to turn around and talk amongst themselves whenever the quaffle goes up his way.”

He clicks his tongue and launches himself to his feet again, pacing over to the window and scanning the horizon restlessly through the twilight. “Quidditch was about the only thing left in this place worth staying for.”

Hermione throws a glare his way. “You have _exams_ coming up, Fred.”

“We told you, we’re not fussed about NEWTs,” he huffs. “The Snackboxes are ready to roll out; we found our cure for those boils with that murtlap essence of yours. A few drops and they’re gone.”

George yawns behind Harry, ruffling his hair with his breath. He drops his forehead forwards and rests it on the back of Harry’s head, and mumbles, “I dunno if I even want to watch this match.”

Harry sits back and lets George drop his nose into his shoulder instead. “I know,” he agrees, and smiles at the feel of the soft skin of his cheek against his neck.

“If _Zacharias Smith_ beats us I might have to kill myself.”

“Kill him, more like,” Fred snorts.

“And that’s the trouble with Quidditch,” Hermione says absently, somewhere deep in her runes translation. “It creates all this tension and bad blood between the houses.”

Fred, Harry, and even George lifts his head to gape at her. She looks up after a moment, and jerks upright at the looks on their faces.

“It does!” she protests. “It’s only a game, isn’t it? And Professor McGonagall’s always going on about inter-house unity any other time…”

“Hermione,” Harry says, shaking his head lightly. “How is it you’re so good with feeling when you don’t understand the first thing about Quidditch?”

She scoffs. “At least my happiness doesn’t rely on whether Ron can block his goalposts properly.”

Harry looks at George in the same moment he looks at Harry. They both seem to be wearing identical looks of horrified disbelief, but with his nose just a hair-breadth’s away from his boyfriend’s, Harry can’t hold it for longer than a few moments. He gives in to the small, ridiculous laugh that’s forcing its way through, and ends up laughing even harder when George grins back at him.

And though he’d probably only tell Hermione if his life really depended on it, by that weekend he thinks he would have given any number of galleons not to care about Quidditch either.

He, Hermione and the twins suffer the whole twenty minutes of the game in agony, cringing at every missed goal and unintentional foul and bad play on the field. Fred screams near-incoherently when Sloper misses his bludger and almost breaks Angelina’s jaw instead. Both Harry and Hermione have to hold him back from throwing himself over the railing.

Two rows below, Umbridge keeps sneaking them disgusting, toady expressions Harry thinks are supposed to be wicked witch smiles. George clings to his hand and Harry clings back, and he’s surprised that neither of them actually break anything, afterwards.

“Your face paint is smudged,” Hermione tells him when they’re mourning in the common room after-party. Harry flushes and manages to stop himself touching his face and making it worse. Ginny snorts from where she’s draped over Hermione’s shoulder with a butterbeer lolling in her hand.

“Consoling each other underneath the stands?” she asks.

Harry clears his throat. “Something like that.”

He glances over to Ron, slouched on a sofa and staring listlessly into his bottle. Katie is perched next to him making gentle attempts to lighten his mood or soothe him, or, really, _anything,_ and Harry commends her for her unwavering determination.

“Ugh, Katie,” Fred says, wandering up beside them. “And here I was thinking you had taste.”

“Taste?” Harry asks.

“Well, taste enough not to go making friends with our brother.”

“Hey,” Harry laughs. “That’s my best friend you’re talking shit about.”

“It’s all right, darling, we forgive you,” George sighs. “You’ve already proven that you do, in fact, have impeccable taste. We’ll allow Ron as a small lapse in judgement.”

Harry smiles and rolls his eyes. “He’s still my best friend.”

“That he is,” George agrees, and takes a sip of his butterbeer.

######  _\- x -_

_Harry Potter,_

_Great Hall,_

_Hogwarts School_

Harry blinks down at the envelope in surprise. Before he can take it from the owl, several more swoop down and crowd onto the table. Harry leans back and glances around, but all of his friends are already very interested in the sudden rush of post.

“What’s going on?” Ron asks. Most of the table are leaning forward to watch now, whispering amongst themselves.

“Harry!” Hermione says, plunging her hands into the ever-increasing number of owls. “I think I know what this means! Open this one first!”

Harry takes the small package from her and tears away the brown paper, only to see his own, sheepish face grinning up at him

 _HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST,_ says the bold red headline of The Quibbler’s latest edition.

 _The Truth About He Who Must Not Be Named and The Night He Returned,_ reads the following title.

“It’s very good, isn’t it?” Luna says happily, having drifted over from her friends. She nudges herself onto the bench between Fred and Ron, who blushes. “It came out yesterday; I asked Dad to send you a copy. I expect all of these,” she waves to the owls, “are from readers.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hermione says, eyes sparkling. “Harry, do you mind if we…?”

“Go ahead,” he says, bemused, and flips through the magazine to the article. As Rita had promised, the account seems to be mostly fact and no fiction—not that the same can be said entirely for her embellishments. He appreciates the effort all the same.

“This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re off your rocker,” Ron says, frowning at one of the letters.

“This woman recommends you try a good course of shock treatment spells from St Mungo’s,” says Hermione, looking a bit miffed and crumpling the envelope.

“This one looks okay,” Harry tells them, scanning a long letter from a witch called Paisley. “She says she believes me!”

“This one’s in two minds,” says Fred, flicking pages over his shoulders carelessly. “Says you don’t come across as as mad as they all say, but he really doesn’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back, and so he really doesn’t know what to do now. Blimey, what a waste of parchment!”

“Here’s another one you’ve convinced!” Hermione says gleefully, reading out a very inspiring passage. “Oh, this is brilliant!”

“Another one who thinks you’re barking,” Ron sighs, chucking the letter. “Oh, but this one says you’ve got her convinced and now she thinks you’re a real hero! She’s even put in a photograph, look!”

Harry laughs as Ron holds up a small photograph of a very pretty witch, smiling and waving at all of them.

 _“What_ is going on here?” says a stomach-turningly sweet voice. Harry looks up to see Professor Umbridge standing behind Fred and Luna, scanning the mess of the table with her bulging toad eyes. Behind her, almost the entire cohort of students is watching.

“Why do you have all of these letters, Mr Potter?”

“Oh, is that a crime now as well?” Fred asks loudly. “Getting post?”

Harry reaches out his leg and hooks an ankle around Fred’s. Fred glances at him and he shakes his head, no. Not now.

“Be careful, Mr Weasley,” Umbridge says with evident satisfaction, “or I shall have to put you in detention.”

The second button of her fuzzy pink cardigan pings off, unexpectedly, and clatters somewhere farther down the table. Harry has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from joining in with the sniggering of the rest of Gryffindor. Umbridge purses her mouth but doesn’t comment.

“Well, Mr Potter?” she implores.

“People are writing to me about an interview I gave,” he says. “It’s about what happened to me last June.”

“An interview?” Umbridge echoes, her voice thinner and higher than ever. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean a reporter found me and asked me questions, so I answered them,” he says, not-quite-truthfully. He picks up The Quibbler and throws it at her. “Here.”

Umbridge catches the magazine, though she fumbles slightly, and looks down at the cover. Her pale, wrinkled, doughy face begins turning a familiar shade of patchy fuschia.

“When did you do this?” she quavers.

“Last weekend,” he says.

“Then there will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr Potter!” she snaps breathily, her fingers white and trembling around the magazine. “How dare… How you could…”

Ignorant to the plague of whispers and snickers, she closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep, nostril-flaring breath.

“I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies,” she says. “The message, apparently, still has not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week’s worth of detention.”

Her sixth button makes its escape as she turns to leave, leaping from her cardigan and catching poor Neville in the ear.

“Well that’s not fair, is it?” Ron says suddenly, standing up from the table and talking to Umbridge’s back. “He only answered questions when he was asked them, how was he supposed to know he’d get all this!”

Umbridge pauses and turns around again.

“Ron!” Hermione hisses.

“Ron, stop,” Harry says desperately, standing up and reaching over. Ron shakes his head and tugs his sleeve away.

“Mr Weasley, do you have something to say?”

“Yeah, I do,” Ron says. “I want to know why carving words and magic into our hands is better teaching than explaining why we shouldn’t be doing these things in the first place!”

“Well, I would have thought that your parents might have explained such things to you when you were younger, Mr Weasley,” she chides, and Hary gulps. “As it appears, they have failed to do so on several counts. I shall endeavour to see to this correction with the appropriate punishment.”

 _“HOW DARE YOU INSULT OUR PARENTS!”_ demand all three Fred, Ginny and Ron. Half of Gryffindor is on their feet now, uncertain and primed to leap into action. Lee steps in front of Fred to block Umbridge from view and begins murmuring to him quietly. Hermione and Neville take hold of each of Ginny’s arms. Harry is just as ready as she is to leap over the table and join Ron, but Alicia has too tight a hold on the back of his robes.

“Excuse me,” Professor McGonagall says sharply, stepping between Umbridge and the Gryffindor table. “May I ask just _what_ is going on here?”

“Minerva,” Umbridge says overly pleasantly. “It seems that some of your house is lacking in the manners department. I was merely going to—”

“Apologies, _Dolores,”_ McGonagall interrupts, “but I was under the impression that a less than flattering remark had been made about the parentage of these children, who are currently under _my_ guardianship as Head of Gryffindor House. I had thought you to be aware that this is utterly inappropriate behaviour from an adult, let alone a teacher!”

Umbridge’s eyes narrow unattractively as her expression sours. Several beats slip by as her lips twist and writhe before she grits out her response.

“Then I apologise for the confusion, _Minerva,”_ she says, “as I must inform you that no such _thing_ has occurred. I shall trust you to take control of _your_ house, and to do so effectively.”

Umbridge turns and marches from the hall, disappearing out of sight. Three seconds must pass before people manage to break out of their stupor, and a sudden, loud cheer rings up towards the vaulted ceiling. Everyone, including the whole of Slytherin house present, is on their feet clapping and shouting and whistling.

“Settle down, now, settle down!” Professor McGonagall calls, waving her hands to calm the crowd, but she can’t quite hide the small smile curving her lips.

“Bloody hell!” Ron says, jaw hanging open.

Ginny does, in fact, shake herself free of Neville and Hermione to vault the table, landing gracefully on Fred’s vacated (and now pixie puff covered) seat and running up to Professor McGonagall. None of them can hear what’s said over the din, but McGonagall gives her a brief, warm hug before sending her back to them.

“George is gonna be so mad he missed this,” Fred says, still thoroughly gobsmacked.

“Where is he?” Harry asks.

“Kitchens. He went to give Dobby special instructions.”

Harry grins and nods, and is less than surprised at lunch when Umbridge can only spew large, pink, shiny bubbles whenever she tries to speak. George winks across the table and discreetly flashes the empty tube of Soap-Sud Buds. 

Harry feels like kissing him right there in front of the whole school, Voldemort be damned.

######  _\- x -_

“Hey, Trouble,” George says, sliding out from behind the statue of the one-eyed witch.

“Great trick,” Harry tells him, grinning and taking his outstretched hand. 

“Dissolved them in her tea—she’ll be spitting bubbles until tomorrow evening, at least,” George says, and pulls him into the shadow of the alcove and into a hug, nosing at the hair behind Harry’s ear.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs. “That interview and standing up to Umbridge… People believe you now. You’re a symbol of hope.”

“I guess we’ve become the real-world Rebellion, Obi-Wan,” Harry chuckles, knowing George won’t get the reference. He presses his lips to George’s neck, and then again as he moves down it. George laughs and takes him by the chin, tilting his head up to capture his lips for a proper kiss.

“Golden boy Harry Potter, all mine,” he says. “Now what would the girls think of that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbles, leaning into him as George backs into the wall and drapes his elbows over Harry’s shoulder. “Some of them are into this sort of thing, I think.”

George’s eyebrows wiggle. “Lucky for us, yeah?”

Harry snorts and kisses him again before he can say anything else. He fumbles around the hem of George’s jumper, slipping his fingers underneath to pull his shirt from his trousers and finally put his hands to the smooth, warm planes of his stomach. George hums happily into his mouth and licks behind his teeth, knowing full well that Harry’s knees will buckle and he’ll have to hold him up against his body.

Harry really does his best to ignore the hardness pressing against his thigh as much as he’s ignoring his own, but it’s getting harder and harder with every time they do this—ah, no pun intended. It’s even worse when George reaches down to Harry’s knee and hitches his leg up, hands sliding back up to gently grope his arse. Harry’s pressed so closely into him they could be moulding together, and the friction… Oh, _god,_ the _friction._

“Ooooh!” squeals an excited, dreadful voice. “What have we here?”

Harry jerks away from George with a disturbingly wet noise and a yelp and almost topples over. George catches his arm and glares up over the head of the one-eyed witch.

“Peeves!” he shouts. “Go away!”

“Potty and Weasley—hiding in the dark!” Peeves sings tauntingly. “Eff-you-see-kay—”

“Peeves!” another familiar voice yells, followed by the pounding of running footsteps on stone. “Peeves, be quiet!”

“—aye-en-gee!” Peeves finishes, bouncing from side to side with glee. “Oooh, _Potty’s in trouble!”_

 _“Peeves!”_ Fred shouts again, careening around the corner and panting heavily. He bends to lean heavily on his knees, and Harry can see a large sheet of parchment clutched in one hand.

“Peeves,” Fred says between gasps, “I promise you—I will tell you where Umbridge is—right now, and—any time you want for a week—as long as you don’t mention a word of this to—to anyone!”

Peeves hums, still grinning widely. Harry flattens himself against the wall next to George, grimacing and resisting the urge to hide beneath his own robes.

“To anyone?” Peeves asks. 

_“Anyone,”_ Fred replies. 

Peeves dances a little over their heads, singing (“Potty—and—Weasley! Potty—and—Weasley!”) to himself as he considers the offer.

“All right then!” he says finally. “I’ll keep your dirty secrets. Where is she?”

“South side of Greenhouse Two,” Fred says in a rush. Peeves squeals in delight and bounces off immediately, still singing loudly. 

“I’ll know if you break our promise!” Fred yells after him.

“Oh, god,” George sighs, letting his head thud against the wall. “That was embarrassing.”

“You’re welcome,” Fred says.

“Yeah, we really owe you,” Harry groans. “Seriously, like, twelve favours, at least.”

“Thanks,” George says, smiling weakly at his brother. “Not quite sure we _actually_ want it going round the entire school.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to get caught up in _that,_ either. You can thank me later.”

“How did you—?”

Fred holds up the sheet of parchment. “Saw you jokers sneaking off on the map. Kept an eye on you when I saw Peeves in the area… Not quite quick enough, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Fred,” Harry says. Fred shakes his head and flaps his hand. 

“Can we go back to the common room now? You know, where it’s nice and warm and not dark and cold? Just as many annoying, snogging couples, I promise.”

“Come on, then,” George says, smiling again. He pushes off the wall and slips his fingers between Harry’s, pulling him along by the hand. “Let’s go before we get got by a bloody cat.”

“I swear to Merlin that thing isn’t a cat,” Harry mutters, but he smiles too.

######  _\- x -_

Cho and Cedric thank him, Seamus actually apologises to him, and Fred and George blow up The Quibbler’s front cover and hang it as a new banner on the common room wall. Luna tells him very excitedly that her father’s reprinting, and Umbridge is more furious than ever.

With Decree number Twenty-seven in place, Harry Potter issues of The Quibbler start appearing everywhere, hidden in plain sight. People get creative about it, disguising them with a multitude of charms and transfiguration or temporarily wiping their contents. The professors all express their gratitude in accordance with Decree Number Twenty-six; that is to say, in avoidant, non-verbal ways. Professor Sprout gives Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passes her a watering can. Professor Flitwick slips him a box of sugar mice. Professor McGonagall leaves a book titled _Defensive Applications of Transfiguration and their Counters_ on his desk, and turns a blind eye when she ‘accidentally’ knocks it into his bag.

Back in the common room, he finds a small scrap of parchment with a note inside the front cover telling him to do a good job and to be careful. It turns into a cotton white lily petal in his hands.

Everywhere Harry goes people are whispering again, but it’s no longer the nasty, malicious type. No, now they flock to him, pestering him with questions and adoration. Anyone in the DA rolls their eyes and scoffs, and most of Slytherin turn up their noses. Harry doesn’t blame those Slytherins; he did accuse a large number of their families of being Death Eaters.

What—or who—takes him most by surprise (and not for the first time), is Theodore Nott. 

Harry had dropped his father in it without even a thought beforehand. The name had come out and he’d frozen on the spot, stuttering when Rita had asked him if he was all right. But Nott had been there, he was a Death Eater, and he was not his son. He deserved it. 

_Theodore_ Nott, however, did not.

“Thank you, Potter,” says Theodore Nott one day when Harry comes across him in the library. Harry freezes like he did in Rosmerta’s and stares at him. 

“It’s all right,” he continues quietly. “To tell the truth, you’ve probably done me a favour, if the Ministry ever stop chasing their tails. He’s an utter bastard, and he’s trying to get me in on their bullshit too. So,” he tilts his head, “thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harry tells him, somewhat strangled. “I’m sorry about, er, everyone else, though.”

Nott bows his quill. “Don’t worry about them. I never do.”

And then he goes back to his essay, and Harry is left with his head spinning and his mouth hanging open.

######  _\- x -_

_“Sirius!”_ Harry gasps into the mirror as Ron climbs onto the bed and pulls the curtains over. He throws up a good muffling charm and a lumos just before Sirius’ face appears in the mirror.

“Harry?” Sirius says. “Harry, are you all right?”

“He has Rookwood,” Harry tells him, all in one breath. “Voldemort used Bode to try to get past that door in the Department of Mysteries and retrieve that thing you’re all protecting—he had Lucius Malfoy put him under the imperius curse.”

“Whoah, slow down, Harry!” Sirius says. “How do you—?”

“The occlumency lessons aren’t working, Sirius, I’m still shite at it. Voldemort says Avery told him that the plan would work, and now he has Rookwood who seems to know why it didn’t.”

Sirius frowns and begins to pace behind the mirror, the room bobbing and jolting around him. “This is bad news,” he mutters. “Very bad… You weren’t supposed to know about it…” 

Harry hisses as his scar begins to sear and Avery is punished.

“Well I _do_ know, Sirius, and I’m bloody well trying to pass you information! What you do with it is up to you, but I’m trying not to get my arse kicked by Snape for fucking up!”

“All right, Harry,” Sirius says in a much calmer tone. He stops pacing. “I’m sorry we’re not taking you seriously. I’m still of the opinion that you should know what’s going on, but my orders are absolute.”

“Screw orders, Sirius—!”

“Harry,” Ron says quietly. “Some things really might be for the best. Do you remember what Fred and George said about your dreams?”

Harry sighs, feeling the tension in his shoulders deflate even as his scar burns. “That it’s what he wants, yes. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologise, pup,” Sirius murmurs. He’s staring somewhere off to the left of the mirror, and his mind looks to be going a mile a minute. “Don’t worry, I think I can get some cover story for you… An attack maybe, or a projection, rather than what you seem to be calling a failing… It’s Snape failing you as a teacher, if you ask me, but no one does that much these days…”

“Sirius…”

“Harry, it’s late,” he says suddenly, snapping back to himself. “You need to go to sleep now. I’ll sort this out as soon as I can. Thank you for telling me.”

“Goodnight, Sirius,” Harry says. He can’t quite bring himself to smile, or even feel the relief he thought he would for telling him.

“Goodnight, Harry, Ron. Please, try to sleep.”

The mirror clears, and Harry looks up at Ron. Ron is chewing on his lip and fiddling hazardously with his wand.

“Well, you’ve done what you can, I suppose,” he says eventually.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. “You look tired. We should go to bed.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. He slides off the bed, breaking his enchantments, and climbs into his own. “Night, Harry.”

“Night, Ron.”

Harry burrows himself back under the covers and tries to ignore the pain in his forehead. Ron’s snoring starts up after a while, and somehow, eventually, he feels himself drifting back off to sleep.

######  _\- x -_

The week does not get better as it wears on.

Harry gets several Ds in Potions. His occlumency doesn’t improve by much. The twins are now so busy selling their wares and avoiding capture by Umbridge that Harry, Ron and Hermione don't get to talk to them outside of the common room and DA meetings. Ginny starts making out with Michal Corner in public places and Hermione becomes even testier than before.

And whenever people aren’t staring and whispering, they’re now openly mocking. For a few days Harry’s terrified that Peeves didn’t keep his promise after all, paranoid that someone’s going to out them and then everyone will know his business, that they’ll all start whispering about how Barmy Potter’s also a fag, or worse—something cruel and damaging about the twins. He needn’t have worried, though, when he realises that it’s mostly Slytherins singing _Weasley is Our King_ very loudly through the halls or everyone else doing their best Umbridge impressions.

For once, nothing much to do with Harry.

“Oi! Neville!” Fred shouts one Wednesday morning, waving from behind a nearby bench. “Longbottom, over here!”

“I’m not falling for it!” Neville responds, trudging determinedly on towards the greenhouses.

“No, we just found a bunch of frogs over here and we thought you’d like to see!” George shouts back.

“Ooh,” Neville says, immediately derailed and already veering off towards them. “What colour are they? Do they have markings? Have you—”

Hermione sighs. “I do wish they’d just do something more constructive with their time…” 

“Come off it, Hermione,” Ron scoffs. “When have you ever seen them be serious about _anything_ related to school?”

“They’re pretty seriously into giving Umbridge a good hazing!” Seamus says gleefully.

“Well yeah,” Harry laughs, “but that’s because she’s a right cow—”

“Potter,” says Professor Sprout, who’s stood beside the greenhouse door they’ve just walked through. Harry winces.

“Sorry, Professor.”

“Yeah,” Ron murmurs, once they’ve slunk away. “What have cows ever done to you?”

Harry snorts, but he laughs harder at the look on Hermione’s face when Professor Sprout gives Gryffindor ten more points for apparent punctuality, even after Neville hurries in a good few minutes late rambling about amphibians and covered in mud.

######  _\- x -_

The first time George’s fingers slip below Harry’s waistband they’re sprawled side-by-side on a large cushion in the Room of Requirement.

George’s fingers trail up and down Harry’s sides beneath his half undone shirt as they kiss, mostly rolled on top of him and obviously aroused. Harry curls his fingers into his hair and his shirt, their jumpers and ties long ago discarded on the floor. There are no Fred and Lee or Cho and Cedric or Ginny and Michael hiding behind pillars or around corners, and no one’s coming back for post-meeting questions.

A cool fingernail traces down Harry’s ribs and dips into his navel, circling the skin that makes him feel an uncomfortable combination of ticklish and turned on. He moans very quietly into George’s mouth and is immediately mortified, though George only kisses him harder and slips his finger down to trace the top of his trousers. Harry squirms after a minute or two of idle back and forth, and George hums around his tongue and slips one finger, a second below the fabric.

“Is this all right?” he murmurs, pulling back from Harry by millimetres. Their noses brush and their breaths are hot and damp over Harry’s cheeks, and he can see George’s blown pupils gazing into his with an intensity that makes him shiver.

He nods and makes a small noise of maybe-approval. He doesn’t trust his voice to speak proper words.

George kisses him again and unlatches the button of his fly with his one hand. The other cradles the side of Harry’s head, over his ear and tangled in his hair as a thumb caresses his cheek.

The fly falls open and Harry realises he’s trembling almost violently. George soothes the hand up his side and across his chest, murmuring to him below the range of hearing individual words and fluttering gentle, warm kisses across his cheeks.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, and Harry nods immediately.

“Must be cold,” he manages, throat strangled. “Or nerves.”

“You’re allowed to be nervous,” George tells him, smiling so sweetly as his fingers dance down to places unknown. They follow a similar pattern with each layer, it seems, as they trace the band of Harry’s underwear teasingly before moving below.

A noise leaps from Harry’s throat when he feels those cool fingers take hold of him and curl their way up his length. They trail and tease lazily, revelling in the breathlessness and twitching they elicit. After a moment or two Harry somehow manages to claw back some bearing of the goings-on and paws at George’s shirt with one hand, undoing the bottom buttons and working slowly down through his shaking. He slides his palm over George’s pectorals and the hand on his cock tightens slightly, forming a bit more of a fist.

“You’re so _gorgeous,”_ George mumbles against his lips, eyes heavily lidded when Harry opens his own to look.

“I should be saying that,” Harry replies, and slides his hand down with no small amount of terror towards his fly. He manages to flick it apart and drag George’s school trousers open like his own, hand diving in a fit of bravery into his boxers to take his heavy cock in hand.

George grunts and nips at Harry’s lips, biting them for him. His hand on Harry’s cock grips him properly, apparently done with teasing while his own interests are at stake. They move slowly at first, testing, exploring. When George starts moving with intention, Harry moans.

His hips push forwards into George’s, and sometime between then and George’s mouth sliding down to his neck they end up with their hands on both of themselves. The sensation of George sucking marks into Harry’s skin is a weird one. It makes him arch up, blessing them with even more contact, and it makes him whine with the squirming of his guts inside.

George is noisy in the same way Harry is incoherent. He mutters his praises and thoughts to Harry unrestrainedly, getting louder and clearer and less expertly strung together as the pressure builds up between their sweat slick torsos. Harry gets quieter even as his moans escape more easily and more frequently. He’s breathless with it, with the smell of George and himself and the heat of their bodies and his _touch,_ dear god the touch that drives him wild with embarrassment and want and the best kind of fear.

“Harry,” George gasps in his ear. “You know I love you, right?”

Harry strangles a shout and comes in his hand and yanks his head down to kiss him. He can’t say it—not yet—so he decides he won’t say anything at all and just try to show him.

George grunts and whines and comes undone over Harry. It’s a shock and it’s still scary but it’s also one of the best feelings in the world. He pulls Harry closer and kisses his temple. They both lie panting, curled together on their cushion. Harry nudges his knee between George’s and wiggles his arms around his back, smiling when he feels George’s grin against his forehead.

######  _\- x -_

They celebrate Ron’s birthday in one of their DA sessions. Harry has them take a break from patronus charms and moves onto some of the stuff Remus and McGonagall have put them onto, and the group attack their tasks with encouraging enthusiasm. Hermione even goes and voluntarily asks the house elves to make Ron a cake, large enough to share with forty-odd people.

Harry’s happiness after his interview in The Quibbler disapparates in a matter of days. Umbridge sacks Trelawney and persists in attending all Care of Magical Creatures lessons, disturbing Harry greatly. OWLs grow ever nearer, not that Hermione or their professors would ever let them forget it. Poor Hannah has a breakdown in Herbology, and Neville doesn’t look far off following her down. If Harry didn’t have the DA to keep him afloat he’s sure he’d be going the same way.

It’s after one of his better sessions, the week before March turns to April, when he returns to the common room and walks into one of the loudest shouting matches he’s ever seen.

He’s in the middle of a conversation with Hermione and Dean about the possible weaponisation of a summoned flock of birds (“Just give them metal wings, Harry, and they’d slice everyone to pieces!”) when the Fat Lady swings open for them, grim-faced, and they hear the voices.

“NO, DON’T YOU START WITH THAT!” Lee Jordan bellows.

“What do you mean don’t start?” Fred replies angrily, standing across from him with his arms folded. Lee menaces at him from behind the sofa nearest Harry.

“What the hell is going on?” George asks sharply, stepping in between them both. He holds his arms out, eyes flashing as he looks from one to the other.

“Fuck off, you’re not involved!” Lee snaps. 

George glares at his brother, who glares back.

“Do _not_ ignore me!” Lee demands. George shoots his brother another look but backs out of the way to loiter by the dormitory stairs.

“So what the hell are you on about, then, if you’re always so right about everything?” Fred asks icily.

“You _know_ what I’m talking about!” Lee replies, gesturing strongly. “You’re never even _looking_ at me, are you? Sometimes I think you’re just using me—and how do I know you aren’t!”

“Because you’re my best friend, maybe? You _know_ that!”

“Yeah, but maybe I was just all too hopeful! Oh, who cares about Jordan? He’s just the Weasley twins’ best friend, nothing more! I thought we were good, Fred, but you’re never looking at _me_ and you know it.”

“What the hell do you mean, _looking at you?_ I’m the one who’s been shagging you whenever you wanted for the past three months, aren’t I? It’s not like you ever come to me for anything else! What the fuck _more_ do you want from me?”

“Maybe your undivided attention? I know it’s not me you want—I knew that from the start! Maybe I _am_ the idiot for thinking you’d ever _GIVE IT UP!”_

“You’re _still_ not making sense!”

_“AREN’T I?”_

The common room rings with the silence that falls between them. Lee is gripping the back of the sofa so hard Harry’s sure he’ll tear the fabric before long, and Fred looks like he’s about to go feral. Both of them are breathing heavily and glaring.

“That’s it,” Lee says, at a normal volume. He pushes away from the sofa and stalks past Fred towards the dorms. “That’s it, I’m done. If you don’t even have the decency to be honest with me—”

“Lee!” Fred protests, reaching out for his arm. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“YES, YOU DO! I _KNOW_ YOU DO! YOU THINK I HAVEN’T BEEN WATCHING YOU FOR THE LAST _SEVEN YEARS?_ I KNOW YOU, AND YOU’RE STILL IN LOVE WITH—”

Lee stops himself, blazing. He’s torn himself from Fred’s grip and is heaving as he watches him.

“I’m _done,”_ he says again. His voice cracks. “Goodnight, Fred.”

Lee turns and flies up the dormitory stairs. He slams the door to their room behind him.

Fred heaves a sigh and leans on the back of an armchair. He runs a hand over his eyes, expression scrunched and pained.

“What the hell are you lot gawking at?” George snaps, melting out of the stonework and going to stand next to his brother. The remaining Gryffindors turn hurriedly back to their business. Harry and Ron stand, shell shocked, beside Hermione, Seamus, Dean and Neville.

If Fred and Lee had started out as a secret, they certainly hadn’t ended as one.


	12. Fifth Year, VII

Fred sulks. 

That’s probably a nice way of putting it. He mopes about the common room, fiddling with rubbish and chewing the insides of his mouth as he looks daggers at anything and everything. He either ignores his food at meal times or eats like he’s been starved, and George is little more than a solid, less angry shadow at his shoulder. Umbridge is feeling the full brunt of their venting.

Lee hasn’t been seen near them since the argument.

Harry gives them their birthday presents quietly, and Fred even manages to smile and thank him and give him a small hug, but it’s still not quite like his usual ones. Not yet.

“We can’t take this, Harry,” George insists. “You’ve already given us presents—”

“Yes you can,” Harry says, pushing the pouch back towards him. “Put it towards the shop, okay? I want it looking incredible when we come for the tour.” He rolls his eyes at Fred’s look. “I’m your investor-type person, remember? This is what investor-type people do.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Dean mutters from nearby. He smirks and winks at Harry, miming zipping his lips and chucking the key.

“Harry,” George says. “This is a lot of money.”

“I know, I picked it up. Happy eighteenth, both of you, and oh, look at that, it’s time to do that essay I have to do. Have fun!”

Harry ignores any further protests but doesn’t stop himself enjoying the attention George insists on giving him afterwards, even if he feels slightly guilty.

“Relax,” George murmurs, stroking the hair away from his forehead. “I wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want to, remember.”

“I’m not sure there’s much you wouldn’t do, is the problem,” Harry groans, but lets him get on with it. It’s not like he won’t return the favour later.

He moves them back onto patronuses before the Easter holidays.

“Happy thoughts, remember,” he finds himself saying for most of the session. About halfway through, every single one of them has asked him at least once, so Harry stands at the end of the room with a corridor of students lining a path either side.

“Are you ready?” he asks, fizzing with anticipation.

“More than!” Ginny says.

“Get on with it!” Alicia teases.

Harry rolls his shoulders back and holds out his wand. 

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

Prongs bursts from the end of his wand, silvery and whole and radiating power. He gallops the length of the corridor and rears up at the end, turning on his hooves to trot back. Everyone gasps, some people stumbling back in surprise. Prongs stops to sniff at Ron and Hermione each, and tries to prod Ginny with his snout. When he gets to the twins he circles George with interest and nudges Fred with his flank.

“That’s amazing!” Susan gasps.

“He’s so beautiful!” Lavender cries.

“Come on, now, you lot,” Harry says. “Take a few steps back from each other and focus on happy thoughts! _Know_ that you can do it! It’s a lot easier in a safe, brightly-lit room than it is in the face of real dementors!”

“We’re trying, Potter,” Daphne Greengrass mutters. She screws up her face in concentration and produces a serviceable, though formless, shield patronus. He smiles and nods encouragingly.

“Oh!” Hermione says, loudly. A rumble of murmurs and gasps turns Harry their way, and he’d be lying if he didn’t say he’s surprised by what he sees.

Hermione is gaping at the little silver jack russell terrier yapping and running around her feet. Ron has fallen over, but still has his wand out, and is so disbelievingly pleased that his ears have gone red.

“Oh my god, Ron!” Hermione says. “You’re amazing!”

“W-Well,” Ron stammers.

“Well done, Ron!” Katie and Angelina say as one, nearest to him after Hermione. The terrier barks excitedly and jumps up at Ginny, pawing for purchase on her skirt.

“He’s so cute!” Katie coos. The little dog wiggles his tail so ferociously he topples over and vanishes.

“Well done, Ron!” Harry repeats, hauling him up onto his feet and hugging him.

“I did it,” Ron breathes. “I actually did it.”

“You did! He’s brilliant!”

“Thanks, mate,” Ron says, clapping Harry on the shoulder before they pull apart. “Go get everyone else getting it too. I’ll just… Practise.”

“Be proud of yourself,” Harry tells him, and leaves him to his astonishment.

“This is lovely,” Luna says softly, and Harry turns to see her watching a little hare dance around her as she twirls her wand.

“Brilliant, Luna!” he says. “You’re doing it!”

A couple of other people are struggling with semi-corporeal forms emerging and disappearing in a wisp. Seamus huffs and stamps a foot as his mist fizzles out into nothing. Harry wanders around with increasing enthusiasm, correcting postures and wandgrips (yes, even after all this time) and calling encouragement to the class.

“You see, if you keep working, you’re much more likely to get where you want to be. Working hard is important, yes, but as I said, there’s something that matters even more: believing in yourself.” 

“Oh come on, Potter,” Ernie scoffs, but he’s smiling.

“All right,” he says, grinning back, “think of it this way—every great wizard in history started out just like you and I. As students. So if they can do it, why the hell can’t we?”

Harry yelps when a large arm snakes around his middle and catches him unawares. 

“Nice speech, troublesome,” George laughs into his ear. Harry turns around and levels him with his best unimpressed look.

“You could just call me over, you know.”

“But that’s no fun!” George whines, waving the idea away. Harry stands with him while he tries the charm again, and they catch a glimpse of a thrashing, feathery thing before he accidentally drops the spell.

“Well, we know it has wings,” Fred says. Harry turns to look at him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Have you tried it?”

He shrugs. “A bit. _Expecto Patronum!”_ A strong swirl of mist shields them, but doesn’t form anything concrete.

A loud laugh carries across the room from where Angelina and Alicia are standing around Katie. Katie has been found by Ron’s terrier again and leapt upon, licking her face enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry!” Ron cries, flushing stupendously, but Katie doesn’t seem to mind.

Harry watches Fred watch them, and the softening of the tension around his eyes. 

“Go on,” he says quietly, and Fred nods.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ he says, and this time he definitely gets feathers and a beak.

“Wahey!” George cheers, grinning and throwing his arm around Fred’s back. Harry gets squashed between them, but with all the laughter, he can’t bring himself to mind.

Hermione’s otter swims up to him at the same time Ginny’s mare expels itself into the room, much to everyone’s consternation. (The look of fear on Smith’s face is definitely one for the album.) People scatter as Harry laughs and holds his hand out to the otter, unconcerned that a fully grown horse has just cantered right through him.

“Bloody hell, Gin!” Fred gasps. “Give a bloke some warning.”

“It’s not my fault you’re all pansies!” she says, grinning and hugging Luna in celebration.

“Please god, one Pansy is enough,” says Theodore Nott, and a good half of the room starts snickering loudly. He looks quite surprised, at that.

The door to the Room opens while everyone goes back to their practising, but when Harry steps away to meet their visitor, they all fall silent.

“Dobby?” he asks. 

Dobby stumbles into the room, trembling and terrified. He looks at the group and squeaks, running to tug gently on Harry’s sleeve.

“Dobby, what is it? Are you all right?”

“Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby says. “Harry Potter, sir, Dobby has come to warn you… But the house elves has been told not to tell…”

Everyone jumps as Dobby runs himself towards the nearest wall. Harry, well-versed in standard Dobby behaviour, makes to seize him around the waist, but he slips through his fingers and bounces off the stone, cushioned by his eight knitted hats.

“Dobby, what’s happened?” Harry asks firmly. He takes hold of both of Dobby’s wrists to keep him from hurting himself.

“Harry Potter, she… She…”

“Who is she, Dobby? Is it—is it Umbridge?” 

Dobby squeals and tries to bash his head against Harry’s knees. Harry holds him at arm’s length.

“Has she found us?” he asks desperately. Dobby doesn’t even need to speak an answer; his face tells them all they need to know.

“OUT!” he bellows. “All of you, run! Hide!”

Three doors appear, each in a different wall of the room. Everyone sprints towards their closest exit, wrenching bags and cloaks and robes off the floor as they go.

“Harry!” Hermione yells, somewhere in the centre of the mess.

Harry scoops Dobby up and runs to collect his robe—he can’t let them get to his things, they’ll know it’s him.

“Dobby, this is an order,” he says. “Take the first and second years and get back down to the kitchens with the other elves. If she asks whether you warned me, lie and say no! And I forbid you to punish yourself!”

“Thank you, Harry Potter sir!” Dobby squeaks, vanishing with a crack and reappearing next to Nigel at the back of the scrum.

“Harry!” says a voice by his ear. “Harry, come on!”

George grabs hold of Harry’s arm and hauls him at top speed out of the nearest door. They come out three corridors away from the Room’s usual entrance and keep running. 

Ahead of them, Draco Malfoy steps out of a shadowed alcove with his wand at the ready. 

_“Protego!”_ George shouts and slashes his own wand upwards, bringing them to a halt as he absorbs Malfoy’s jinx with a perfect shield.

Harry shoves his hand into his pocket and grabs hold of his protean coins.

 _Hide,_ he thinks desperately. _They’re here._

It might be his imagination, but Harry swears he feels the coins flare with heat in his hand.

“Potter,” Malfoy says.

“Let us through, Malfoy!” Harry snaps. “You can’t seriously be working for—”

“Potter,” he interrupts, “did Nott and the Greengrasses sign that sheet?” 

_“What?”_

“The sign-up sheet, Potter!” he says irritably. “They’re Slytherins, I can’t let them—”

“What do _you_ know, Malfoy?” George growls. “If you wanted an invite, all you had to do was ask—or is daddy already teaching you all the darkest spells he knows?”

“Oh, _please,”_ Malfoy scoffs. “Your little organisation is one of the worst kept secrets of the school! After Cassie’s stupid crush on _you,_ Weasley, of course.”

George wrinkles his nose. “Is he still…?”

Harry sighs. _Is this really the best time?_

“Yes, they signed it,” he snaps. 

“Shit,” Malfoy hisses. “I—”

“Draco?” comes the sickly cry of Umbridge: Professional Toad. “Draco, have you found someone?”

Malfoy’s eyes widen. They can hear her footsteps clicking quickly up to the corner ahead of them, and he panics.

“Trust me,” George says suddenly, and shoves Harry into the wall. Harry tries to say something—anything—but George cuts it all off as he crushes their mouths together with a tang of desperation and sweat. Malfoy makes an odd noise. 

“Er, I’ve found Potter, Professor,” he calls back. “I’m not sure…Um…”

They hear Umbridge round the corner. George keeps on him for another few seconds before jerking back, staring at them with wide eyes and short breath.

“Sorry,” he says. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s him!” Umbridge shrieks, jubilant. “Oh, excellent! Excellent, Draco! Fifty points to Slytherin.”

“Er,” Harry says eloquently, frazzled and jumbled and only just able to tear his gaze away from George. “What’s going on?”

“You’re coming with me, Potter!” Umbridge tells him. Her face is split and cracked by a nasty grin and she stalks towards them in a terrifying manner.

“What did we do?” George asks indignantly. “There’s no decree about this, is there?”

“I’m talking about your little illegal _club,_ Mr Weasley!” Umbridge shrills.

 _“What club?”_ Harry asks. “What on _earth_ are you talking about?”

“Never mind, Potter! Come with me!”

“I’ll bring Weasley,” Draco says, jumping into action with less menace than calculation behind his tone.

“Yes, yes, if you must,” Umbridge says off-handedly. “Come along, Potter.”

Her fingers dig harshly into the skin of Harry’s wrist. He struggles, but she only bruises him more.

Harry wonders how many of the others have been caught. Mrs Weasley is going to go spare at them. Ron—she’d kill him—Fred, George _and_ Ginny, all caught up in his mess. Hermione, expelled before she’d even taken her OWLs… Neville when he’d just been getting so good… A large hand soothes down his shoulder from behind. 

Harry then wonders what the hell’s gotten into Malfoy for him to be treating them like they’re actual people.

“Fizzing Whizzbee!” Umbridge sings to the stone gargoyle outside Dumbledore’s office.

“Didn’t think I’d be here again so soon,” George mutters as the staircase raises them up to his door.

When they push open the door, they find the office full of people. Dumbledore sits serenely behind his desk, fingers steepled. Professor McGonagall stands rigidly behind him, jaw working. Cornelius Fudge, looking immensely pleased with himself, rocks on the balls of his feet beside the fire. Kingsley and another rough, wiry-haired wizard flank the door like guards, and a bespectacled Percy Weasley perches on the edge of a side table with quill and parchment at the ready. His mouth is set in a grim line, though he smiles every time the Minister looks over at him.

“Perce,” George growls, putting on the show. Percy sniffs and ignores him.

The portraits of previous the heads are not shamming sleeping, tonight. They flit from frame to frame, whispering urgently and lowly. Harry wrenches his arm from Umbridge’s grip and scowls at her.

“Well,” says Cornelius Fudge. “Well, well, well…”

“He was headed back to Gryffindor Tower,” Umbridge says. “Mr Malfoy cornered him.”

“Er, Professor,” Malfoy says. Harry turns to him, sharply, but he doesn’t flinch. “That’s not… I mean, they weren’t really going anywhere when I found them.”

“Mr Malfoy—”

“Oh?” says Dumbledore. “Might I ask what they were doing?”

Fudge moves to open his mouth but Malfoy scrunches his nose and says, looking disgusted, “They were kissing, Professor. Rather, um…”

“Enthusiastically?” George offers. His smirk _gleams._

“Enough!” Umbridge says. “They were on the scene!”

“Well, Potter,” says Fudge. “I suppose you know why you’re here.”

“Er, no Minister,” Harry says, quite boldly. “I really don’t.”

Fudge huffs a mirthless laugh. “Well of course you do! Professor Umbridge hasn’t brought you up here for nothing!” 

“No, Minister, we really were just looking for somewhere away from our friends.”

“All the way up there?” Umbridge asks in outrage.

George shrugs. “It’s quiet.” 

“Enough!” she shrieks. “Search them!”

Kingsley steps forward and begins patting him down. He won’t meet Harry’s eyes, but while he takes the DA notebook and his protean coins, he leaves Harry his wand and the Marauder’s Map. George has nothing to offer but his protean galleon and a pocketful of Snackbox sweets. All of these things are deposited on Dumbledore’s desk.

“You are aware, Mr Potter, that you have broken several school rules—”

“Pardon me, Minister,” Harry says, “but I really am _not._ What rules are you accusing me of having broken?”

“So, it is news to you, is it,” Fudge hisses, “that an illegal student organisation has been discovered within this school?”

“It has?” Harry says. He turns to George. “Did you know?”

George sticks out his bottom lip and shakes his head.

“Malfoy?” Harry asks, working on a hunch.

“I only know what the High Inquisitor of the school has told me,” Malfoy says, nose in the air.

“I think, Minister,” Umbridge interrupts, “that we might make better progress if I were to fetch our informant.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” Fudge says. He sneers at Dumbledore. “There is nothing like a good witness, is there now?”

“Nothing at all, Cornelius,” Dumbledore agrees, still happy to comply, it seems.

Malfoy sniffs again. “If it is of use to you, as a witness,” he says, “I really did not see Potter and Weasley doing anything incriminating. Even so, I’d quite like to see how this turns out.”

“Of course, Mr Malfoy,” Fudge says, looking not at all like he cares.

The door to Dumbledore’s office swings open again and Umbridge returns, gripping tightly the shoulder of Marietta Edgecombe. Edgecombe refuses to remove her face from her hands, even when she nearly trips over the door frame.

“Don’t be scared, dear!” Umbridge simpers. “Don’t be frightened! It’s quite all right now, you’ve done the right thing, coming to us. The Minister is very pleased with you, he’ll be telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been in the morning.” She looks up meaningfully at Fudge. “Marietta’s mother, Minister, is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Magical Transportation, of the Floo Network office. She’s been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.”

“Oh, jolly good!” Fudge crows. “Like mother, like daughter, I see! Well come on, dear, look up, don’t be shy! Let’s hear what you have to—galloping gargoyles!”

Fudge stumbles backwards at the sight of her, standing accidentally in the fireplace and having to set about stamping out his smouldering cloak. Marietta screams and hauls her robes right up over her face, but not before everyone in the office sees the snaking lines of large, purple boils stretching in a way that spells _SNEAK_ very clearly across her face. Harry doesn’t have to look over to know that Hermione had gotten her inspiration from the twins.

“Never mind the spots now, dear,” Umbridge says. “Tell the Minister—”

But Marietta whimpers and ducks down to hunch over her knees on the floor.

“All right, you silly girl! I’ll tell him myself!” Umbridge glares down at Marietta before reattaching her sickly smile and turning it on the Minister. “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe arrived at my office shortly after dinner saying she needed to discuss something of importance with me. She said that if we were to proceed to a secret room on the seventh floor that we would find something to our advantage. When I asked a few more questions, she began to tell me about some sort of secret meeting being held there, which is unfortunately when this atrocious hex came into effect.” She waves disapprovingly to Marietta, knelt on the floor. “When she caught sight of herself in my mirror, she became too distraught to continue.”

“Well, Miss Edgecombe,” Fudge says, fixing her with an incredibly patronising gaze. “That was a very brave thing, you did, coming to Professor Umbridge; you did exactly the right thing.” (Behind Harry, he can practically hear Malfoy rolling his eyes. “Oh _please,”_ he murmurs, and is lucky that only Harry and George are close enough to hear.) “Now, will you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was its purpose? Who was there?”

Marietta cries out and retreats farther into herself.

“Haven’t we got a counter-jinx for this thing?” Fudge asks, waving impatiently to Marietta. Harry cannot bring himself to pity her, even now. When Umbridge shakes her head no, he finds himself feeling an intense pride for Hermione’s skills.

“It doesn’t matter if she won’t speak—I can take up the story from here,” Umbridge says. “You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report last October concerning Potter meeting with a large number of people in the Hog’s Head pub in Hogsmeade—”

“And what is your evidence for that?” Professor McGonagall cuts in sharply.

“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, who happened to be in the bar at that time. He was heavily bandaged all over, it is true, but his seeing and hearing abilities were quite unimpaired by it. It was, in fact, the strong muffling charm placed around the group that was most suspicious. It appeared at times that one or two people would argue with Mr Potter, but overall they were in agreement. He reported that it seemed the type of meeting to repeat or precede an official introduction of an organisation. He of course hastened at once to the school to report—”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why he wasn’t prosecuted for all of those regurgitating toilets!” McGonagall says, eyebrows rising. “What an enlightening insight into our national justice system!”

“Blatant corruption!” roars a portrait of a stout, red-faced man seated just behind Dumbledore. “The Ministry did not cut deals with the petty criminality in my day—no sir, they did not!”

“Thank you, Fortescue,” Dumbledore says calmly. “That will do.”

“I am quite certain,” Umbridge says, “that the purpose of such a meeting was for Potter to convince that band of students of his crazed ideas and imaginings and raise some sort of threat within the school, thereby forming an illegal society—”

“I am afraid that you will find you are wrong, there, Dolores,” says Dumbledore.

“Oho!” cries Fudge. “Yes, do let’s hear your latest far-fetching nonsense designed to pull Potter out of trouble! Do go on! Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day—” (George clears his throat with a pointed twist to the set of his lips) “—or is there an even simpler explanation—one involving some basic time-turning, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of invisible dementors?”

Harry feels George bristle next to him.

“Very good, Minister,” Percy says with a small grin and a light laugh. At least he’s learnt how to stop being so overbearing since his posting with Crouch.

“Cornelius, I certainly do not deny—as I’m sure neither does Harry—that Harry was there at the Hog’s Head that day, nor that he may have been trying to recruit students to some kind of Defence Against the Dark Arts group.” And how had he known that? Never mind; more pressingly, _why would he drop them in it?_ “I am merely pointing out that such a group, at that time, was not illegal, as Dolores is trying to suggest. If I remember correctly, the Decree was enacted some two days after Harry’s meeting, so he was in fact, not breaking any rules.”

Percy looks sharply up at Dumbledore. Fudge perches mid bounce on his toes, and his mouth hangs open like a fly trap.

Unfortunately, Umbridge recovers first.

“That is all well and good, Headmaster,” she says sweetly, “but we are now six months on from the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. Any meetings that have occured in the meantime will certainly have been illegal.”

“Well,” Dumbledore says, peering over his glasses, “they certainly _would be_ if they _had_ continued after the Decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence to suggest that any further meetings occurred?”

As Dumbledore speaks, Harry hears a small rustling behind him. Kingsley whispers something lowly, too lowly for him to hear, and Harry feels something brush against his side. He glances down, but nothing is there to cause the motion.

“Might I remind us all,” George begins loudly.

“No,” Percy says. George makes a face at him.

 _“Might I remind us all_ that there is currently no concrete evidence suggesting any such group was _ever_ set up?”

“Evidence?” Umbridge repeats. “Weasley, by the virtue of Miss Edgecombe being here, looking like this, I do not think we need to dally over any other evidence!”

“Though Potter’s notebook may be of some use,” Fudge says suddenly.

“Hey!” Harry yelps. “That’s private!”

“Oh? He’s jumping in to protect his secrets already…” Fudge reaches for the notebook, but McGonagall slams her hand down on its cover.

“Minister, do you really think it appropriate to go rifling through the private property—thoughts—of an underage student?”

“If the contrary may obstruct the path of justice, Minerva, I think we can be pardoned!”

He bats her hand away, and this time Harry is the one ready to pounce.

“Oho, the book refuses to open!”

“That’s because it needs a password,” Harry grits out. 

“Then I suggest you provide it for us, Potter, lest you be seen as obstructing—”

“Yes, yes, _fine.”_ Harry snaps. He pulls his wrist from Malfoy’s weak grip and marches over to Dumbledore’s desk. “Draco Malfoy is a prat,” he says, and flips open the cover of the book.

“How juvenile,” Malfoy drawls, but when Harry glances over his shoulder he can see the beginnings of a smirk on his lips.

“Here, Minister,” Harry says, pushing the notebook towards him.

Fudge flicks through the pages, and Harry thinks of how glad he is that Hermione has a tendency to think of every eventuality. He’s also glad that he capitulated to her insistence of writing little diary-like notes every so often, seeing as he’s begun to treat it like a proper notebook, and it looks a lot less suspicious being so full of jottings and scribbles and pictures. He can’t help the little noise in his throat when Fudge happens across one particular photograph, taken by Ginny as a test for her new camera.

“That’s _private,”_ he hisses, watching himself laugh and kiss George sweetly on the cheek where they’d all been sequestered away in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, one late February evening. Photograph Fred makes fun of them with rude hand gestures and Ron pretends to be sick in the background.

Fudge clears his throat uncomfortably. “Are you sure you have no secrets in here, Potter?” he says. 

Harry is struck suddenly by the memory of sliding the sign-up sheet into the pocket of this very book; the problem is that he honestly can’t remember which password he’d given before he put it in. He spares a moment to thank his lucky stars that he thought to give them all codenames, at least.

Fudge holds his wand over the book and says, “Revelio!”

Nothing happens, and Harry imagines himself breathing a sigh of relief. He owes Hermione his _life._

“Never mind that, Minister,” Umbridge shrills. “We have Miss Edgecombe right here!”

“Oh, is she able to tell us about six months’ worth of meetings?” Dumbledore asks. “I was under the impression she was only here to give information about a meeting tonight.”

“Miss Edgecombe,” Umbridge says at once, “do tell us how long these meetings have been going on, dear. I’m sure if you simply nod or shake your head, it won’t make the spots worse. Have these meetings been happening regularly during these last months?”

Marietta, to everyone’s amazement, shakes her head.

“I’m not sure you understood the question,” Umbridge says. “I mean to ask if you’ve been going to any meetings over the last six months. Have you, dear?”

Again, Marietta shakes her head. Above the line of her robes, her eyes look oddly blank.

“What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?” Umbridge presses unnecessarily.

“I would think it to be quite clear, Dolores,” Professor McGonagall says. “There have been no meetings for the past six months. Is that correct, Miss Edgecombe?”

Marietta nods.

“But there was a meeting tonight!” Umbridge squawks. “There was a meeting in the Room of Requirement, Miss Edgecombe, you told me about it! Potter was there, as the leader! Potter organised it, Potter— _why on Earth are you shaking your head, girl?”_

“Usually, a shake of the head is taken to mean _no,”_ says Professor McGonagall. “So unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of sign language as of yet unknown to humans—”

Umbridge seizes Marietta by the shoulders, hauling her to her feet and shaking her quite roughly. Harry takes a step back at the sudden movement, just as Dumbledore flies to his feet, wand aloft, and Kingsley starts forward. Umbridge springs back from Marietta, who looks none the happier for being released than she was upset at being shaken.

“I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, Dolores,” Dumbledore says. For the first time, he actually looks appropriately angry.

“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge,” says Kingsley. The depth of his voice somehow makes the threat all too clear.

“No,” Umbridge says breathlessly. “I mean—yes, Shacklebolt, you’re right, I—I forgot myself.”

Harry watches Marietta with a small frown. She’s barely moved. Her eyes are still blank. She hasn’t even made a noise.

Oh.

_Kingsley._

“Dolores,” says Fudge. “The meeting that we definitely know took place tonight—”

“Yes! Yes Minister. Well, when Miss Edgecombe tipped me off I headed immediately to the seventh floor corridor with a number of _trustworthy_ students, so as to catch the participants red-handed. It appears that they had been forewarned of our arrival, however, because there were students running in every direction across the seventh floor when we got there. It matters less, however, since I’m sure Miss Parkinson and Mr Goyle were close enough to identify a number of individuals—I am sure we have suitable methods of persuading the truth from those involved, Minister.”

“Yes, quite,” Fudge agrees. Harry snarls.

“Anyway, I sent Miss Parkinson to the room before it closed,” Umbridge continues. Harry’s heart sinks. There were _photographs_ in there. “She informed me that the room was no longer in use and that there was nothing of note to be found except this, lying on the floor outside.”

Umbridge holds up a small piece of folded card, boasting the words, _For use by any DA member._ It’s one of Hermione’s signs that she’d left on the bookcases.

“DA, is it?” Fudge says, taking the card. His smile suggests that he may have just found the legendary hoard of gold hidden in the deepest mountain cave. “Can we take this to be initials of some sort? Of course, this could pertain to you Dumbledore, couldn’t it? Is this your name on this card? Dumbledore’s something-or-other? Alliance? Association? Affiliation?”

He steps closer to Dumbledore’s desk, brandishing the card. “Or should I go ahead and suggest that this stands for _Dumbledore’s Army?”_

Dear god, Ginny and Susan were right. It _is_ their worst fear. And now they’re all going to pay the price.

Harry panics, and goes to shout, _No! What the hell are you on about?_ He goes to out them all by accident, admit that he’s seen that sign before, but Dumbledore is quicker.

“In fact, Cornelius, I think you just have,” he says. _“Dumbledore’s Army…_ It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“So you admit it!” Fudge gloats. “You admit to having an illegal organisation operating within the walls of the school! Are you getting this, Weasley? Are you writing down every word he says?”

“Yes, Minister,” Percy says, scribbling furiously across his parchment. Several steps across the office, Harry can see George trying to rid himself of Malfoy’s hold. Kingsley steps in and lies a hand across his shoulders and he stills, reluctantly.

“The game is up,” Dumbledore sighs. “Would you like a written confession from me, Cornelius, or would a statement taken under these present witnesses suffice?”

“Professor?” Harry says, pulling on his best air of confusion. “Professor, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“What the hell are you all playing at?” George demands.

“Mr Weasley, Mr Potter, if you would please be quiet for a moment,” Dumbledore says. 

Harry catches the look between Kingsley and McGonagall, both of whom show a visible uncertainty and fear. Hell, even Malfoy looks scared. 

He fumbles behind him for George’s hand. George squeezes his fingers between his own.

“A statement?” Fudge says slowly. “What do you—”

“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius,” Dumbledore repeats. “Not Potter’s Army, _Dumbledore’s Army.”_

Fudge takes another step back into the fire and swears. _“You?”_ he hisses, stamping out his cloak once again.

“That is correct,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, inclining his head.

“You organised this?”

“I did.”

“You recruited these—these _students_ for your army?”

“Tonight was to be the first meeting, merely to see if they would be interested in such an organisation. I see now that it was, obviously, a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe.”

Marietta nods, and Fudge explodes.

“Then you _have_ been plotting against me!” he roars.

“That’s right,” Dumbledore agrees.

“What? _No!”_ Harry shouts.

George’s hand tightens around his as Kingsley shoots a look of warning towards them.

“Please be quiet, Harry, or I’m afraid I might have to ask you to leave my office.”

“Yes, be quiet, Potter,” Fudge snaps. “Well, well, well! I came here tonight expecting to expel Potter and instead—”

“Instead, you get to arrest me,” Dumbledore finishes. “Rather like losing a knut and finding a galleon, is it not?”

“Weasley!” Fudge barks. “Weasley, have you written it all down? Everything he’s said, the confession, all of it?”

“Yes, Minister,” Percy replies, still scribbling furiously.

“The bit about how he’s been trying to build up an army against us? How he’s trying to destabilise me as Minister?” 

Percy quirks a small smirk. “Of course, Minister.” 

An army indeed.

“Very well, then!” Fudge says. “Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to the Daily Prophet, post-haste! If we send a fast owl we should make the morning edition!”

Percy stands from his table and stalks across the room.

 _“Traitor!”_ George hisses, and Percy pauses. He looks at George intently, conveying something with his eyes that Harry doesn’t understand.

“I think you should take a good look around you, George, before you do anything rash,” he says, and leaves. They can hear the heels of his shoes clipping quickly down the staircase as the stone moves around him.

Harry swallows thickly and looks around. Dumbledore, in front of his desk, McGonagall beside him. Kingsley, to Harry and George’s left, Draco Malfoy to their right. Umbridge, Fudge and the second auror holding Marietta on the left side of the office. Fawkes, perched on the mezzanine above Dumbledore’s head.

Fudge turns on Dumbledore as the office door swings closed.

“You will now be escorted back to the Ministry, Dumbledore, where you will be formally charged and sent to Azkaban to await trial!”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore sighs. “Yes, I was afraid we might hit this little snag.”

“Snag?” Fudge implores. “I see no _snag,_ Dumbledore!”

“Maybe, but I’m afraid that I do.”

“Oh, really now?”

“Yes,” Dumbeldore says. “You seem to be under the impression that I’m going to, ah—what’s the phrase?— _come quietly._ I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll be doing anything of the sort. I have no intention of going to Azkaban, you see; I could always break out, but that would be an awful waste of time. No, I can think of rather a large number of other things I would rather be doing.”

Umbridge appears to be boiling from the ears inwards. Fudge gapes quite stupidly at Dumbledore, as if he’s been struck across the face unexpectedly.

“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” Dumbledore says as the second auror steps forward and reaches for his wand. “I am sure that you’re an exceptional auror—I seem to remember that you achieved all ‘Outstanding’s in your NEWTs—but if you do attempt to bring me in by force, I am afraid I might have to fight you.”

“So,” Fudge snides, “you intend to take on Dawlish, Kingsley, Dolores and myself single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?”

“Oh, Merlin’s beard, no,” Dumbledore chuckles. “Not unless you are foolish enough to necessitate it.”

“He will not be single-handed!” cries Professor McGonagall, already plunging her hand into the inside pocket of her robes.

“Yes, he _will,_ Minerva!” Dumbledore says. “Hogwarts needs you.”

“Enough of this!” Fudge says. “Dawlish, Shacklebolt—take him!”

Kingsley and Dawlish step forward. At the same time, Fawkes screeches above them and leaps into the air. He swoops down just as Dumbledore raises his hands to catch the phoenix’s tail between them, and a large pillar of flame overtakes them. 

It appears that Fudge, in all of his overzealous glee, had forgotten that it is usually the large hoard of gold over which the fiercest of dragons sleep.

George snatches Harry’s shoulders and hugs him to his chest, turning him away and forcing them both into a crouch. There’s a scream and a blast, shattering everything, and another shout and several thuds. Harry clings to George, his fingers dug into his sides, grasping his jumper. George has his head cradled in one hand and his back in the other, and after a few moments, the only sounds Harry can hear is their ragged, panicky breathing.

Harry lifts his head from George’s shoulder slowly. The office has been completely blown out—glass cabinets and windows shattered, metal instruments warped, tables and chairs overturned. Kingsley, Dawlish, Fudge and Umbridge have been knocked back and are sprawled on the floor. Beside Harry is Professor McGonagall, hands firmly fisted in the robes of Malfoy and Marietta as she covers them.

“Professor?” Harry asks weakly. George sighs, softly, and relaxes his hold so they can get to their feet.

“Well, Minister, there’s one thing you can’t deny,” Kingsley says into the quiet of the destruction. “Dumbledore’s got style.”

Fudge harrumphs and stands, brushing down his robes imperiously.

“Potter, are you—Mr Weasley!” Professor McGonagall cries, pushing herself hurriedly to her feet.

George grimaces and falls back to his knees, and Harry chokes. 

“Holy shit,” Malfoy mutters.

A shockingly large shard of glass has embedded itself near George’s right shoulder blade. He grunts and tries to stand again, but falls back onto his hands and cries out. The rest of the window seems to be scattered all around them.

“George!” Harry exclaims, kneeling carefully in front of him. His hands flit from his face to his shoulders to his hands on the floor, unable to settle and even less able to parse any thought beyond shock.

“Potter, help me get him up,” Professor McGonagall says. “Mr Malfoy, please run ahead to Madam Pomfrey; tell her what has happened and be on hand to assist her.”

“Yes, Professor,” Malfoy says at once, striding from the room without protest. 

“George,” Harry chokes again. George flashes him a weak smile.

“I’m all right,” he says, wincing. “We’ve had… We’ve had worse.”

“George, can I—?”

Harry shuffles around to his uninjured left side and slips his arms around his waist, taking his weight. George carefully moves his arm around Harry’s shoulders and heaves himself to his feet, more than cautious of his movements. Professor McGonagall steps around George’s other side and helps take his weight.

“Minerva,” Professor Umbridge interrupts. “I think, after the events of this evening, Potter should be coming with _me,_ don’t you?”

“If you would like to explain to tomorrow’s tabloids why the fifth son of Molly Prewett has lost all use of his right arm under _your_ watch, then on your head be it!” McGonagall snaps. “But as I do, _genuinely_ care about the wellbeing of my students, I shall require Mr Potter to assist me in helping Mr Weasley to the infirmary!”

Umbridge recoils in fury but offers no further protest.

“Miss Edgecombe, if you will accompany us,” McGonagall says. Marietta nods and holds the door open for them. 

“Edgecombe, our things,” Harry says. She nods again, robes still held to her face, and returns to collect their possessions from Dumbledore’s desk.

“Cheers,” George mumbles as they step off the rolling staircase and stagger towards the hospital wing. Harry can feel blood smearing across his hands.

“Save your breath, Mr Weasley,” McGonagall tells him.

Madam Pomfrey comes running out of the infirmary to meet them, Malfoy hot on her heels.

“In here, Minerva, Mr Potter, quickly,” she directs, hurrying them towards the nearest bed and pulling the curtains closed. She takes George’s bloody hands and vanishes the shards of glass peppered across them.

“Mr Weasley, if you’ll hold onto the bed there—yes, perfect. Now, I am going to have to remove your jumper and shirt. Is that all right?”

“As long as we can mend them after,” George says, huffing an aborted laugh and hissing in pain. “Where’s Harry?”

“Here,” Harry says, scrambling onto the edge of the bed and placing a hand over one of his, clenched around the horizontal rung at the foot of the frame and oozing thin, bright rivulets of blood.

“Stand as still as you can, Mr Weasley,” Pomfrey says, and traces her wand in a circle around the glass. She then drags her wand straight down his back and levitates his dissected clothing down to his wrists.

“This the same view you get in the changing rooms?” George asks, biting down on a smile even as his eyebrows draw together.

“Not quite,” Harry mutters, helping to ease one hand after the other through the cuffs and dragging each soaked half of his shirt completely away. 

“Mr Malfoy, please have the clotting and cleaning agents ready.”

“Ready.”

“Good. On three.”

George’s left hand flicks upwards and grabs hold of Harry’s fingers, nearly crushing them between himself and the bedframe.

“One, two—three!”

George yells out as Pomfrey pulls the glass swiftly from his back and levitates it onto the tray behind her. Harry can’t see the wound, nor can he see what Pomfrey is doing, but the horrified, green tinge to McGonagall’s expression tells him plenty. George twitches and jerks as Pomfrey meticulously removes every sliver of glass, from the wound or from elsewhere, but before long Malfoy is pushing a phial of reddish-brown clotting agent to his lips and George drinks it down with a grimace.

Harry can see the blood dripping down his back and onto the floor.

“Should I tell the others?” he asks Professor McGonagall. She purses her lips and nods.

“That would probably be for the best—”

“Stay,” George gasps. “Please, stay.”

Harry smiles, even though he knows it must look strained. He draws his wand and inhales slowly, trying his best to block out the noises of pain. He exhales just as calmly, and casts.

Prongs leaps to life beside him. McGonagall, Malfoy, and even George look up at him, shocked. Madam Pomfrey, to her testament, doesn’t flinch in the slightest as she continues her work on George’s back.

“Go,” Harry says to Prongs, who gallops off down the dormitory and through the closed door.

“What on earth…” Malfoy mumbles. McGonagall blinks.

“Remus taught me how to send messages with them over Christmas,” Harry says half absently as he turns his attention back to George. “I’ve told them what happened in Dumbledore’s office… Let’s just hope they’re smart enough not to get caught by Umbridge on their way here.”

He doesn’t mention the possibility of them being caught before, but he does glance at Malfoy, who doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Thanks,” George says. “Merlin, I’m glad that bloody thing’s out.”

“Could you feel it?” Harry asks quietly.

“Yeah, when I moved. Don’t know what it was though—glass? Seemed to be a lot around.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again.”

George looks at him. “You know I can’t promise that.”

“Well you _should,”_ Harry glares. “I’m not having you throw yourself in front of me all the time! I had enough of that fourteen years ago!”

George swallows, eyes widening. “I—”

“No,” Harry says softly, instantly cowed by his own thoughts. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not being fair. I’m just… I can’t _lose_ you.”

“…I’m still here, aren’t I?” he says, trying to smile.

Harry laughs gently. Sadly. “You know what I mean.”

“How did you hide the notebook?” George asks, and Harry leans into the swift change of topic. He fishes the book from his pocket with his free hand and holds it up so they can all see the little snake emblem on the front.

 _“Reveal yourself,”_ Harry says, and everyone jumps.

“Parseltongue?” George marvels. “You’re a genius, you know that?”

“That’s my line,” Harry replies, and flips quickly to the back pocket. “Oh, thank god, it’s here.”

“What is?”

“The sheet with all of our names,” he says, sliding it out to check it over. “If I have it, it means Umbridge doesn’t. If everyone got away, they’ll be safe.”

“Thank Christ,” George sighs.

“Thanks to you, Potter, your friends might have just escaped certain hell,” says Professor McGonagall. “Then again, I’m sure there were numerous mistakes made on everyone’s part.”

“Are we in trouble, Professor?” he asks with a grimace.

“Certainly, if you are referring to Professor Dumbledore’s most recent departure,” she says crisply.

“She’s going to insinuate herself as Headmistress, isn’t she?” Malfoy says, holding something against George’s back while Madam Pomfrey works. 

“She is,” McGonagall agrees. “You’ll do well to keep well out of her way.”

Harry spots the wry grin on George’s face immediately.

“George,” he says. “She’ll have you _tortured_ next time she catches you. Expelled, even.”

George smiles at him.

“Mr Weasley, I highly recommend that you refrain from incriminating yourself any further,” says Madam Pomfrey. “The same goes for your brother.”

“Which one?” George replies. Harry rolls his eyes and McGonagall sighs, though Harry can see it’s a fond one.

“Is everything under control here, Poppy?” she asks.

“Everything is fine, I assure you,” says Madam Pomfrey. “Mr Weasley will back together shortly, and will suffer no damage or limitations to his mobility. It is likely, however, that the healing process may leave minor scarring.”

George nods. He doesn’t look upset about it at all, Harry realises, and that just makes him feel worse.

“Good,” says Professor McGonagall. “If you’ll excuse me, I have matters I must attend to. I’m sure you are happy to see to Miss Edgecombe and Mr Potter?”

“Of course,” Madam Pomfrey replies. Professor McGonagall nods to her and to Harry, and steps back through the curtains.

The room lapses into silence as the door to the hospital wing closes gently. George still hisses when he’s moved or jabbed at, and Harry strokes a thumb over his wrist to comfort him as best he can.

“So,” he says after a few minutes, grappling for any kind of distraction from their thoughts. “What was that thing you and Malfoy were talking about earlier?”

“What _thing?”_ Malfoy asks snottily.

“No clue,” George mutters. Harry can see Malfoy frowning over George’s shoulder.

“Oh,” he says suddenly. _“Cassius.”_

George groans, and Harry laughs.

“Can we not talk about him?” he asks weakly, mouth twitching. “Please?”

“No,” Harry grins. “This is something I _definitely_ want to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unnecessary drama? Always >:)  
> I'm sure you can tell, but I don't know shit about injuries and healing


	13. Fifth Year, VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you're curious about the in-joke with Cassius Warrington in the last chapter... Wonder no more! Part two of this series is live for perusal at your discretion. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this rollercoaster of a chapter! We're getting to the main event soon >:3c

When Madam Pomfrey allows the rest of the Weasley clan (plus Hermione) into the infirmary, they find George sitting propped up on the bed, shirtless, bandaged, and with his right arm in a sling. Harry, patched up and no longer bleeding from cuts he hadn’t noticed, is sitting on the bed at his left side and holding his hand. He slips down to let the others in, but George refuses to let go.

“Bloody hell, Georgie,” Fred says, dashing up to check him over. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know—the usual,” George chuckles. “Got caught by Malfoy, who _wasn’t_ being a dick for the first time in his life; got caught by Umbridge and dragged up in front of the Minister, who accused us of all sorts of things and had our stuff rifled through to try to prove how guilty we are; watched Dumbledore take all the blame and be threatened with Azkaban, and then got a chunk of glass in the back when he smashed up his office making his dramatic escape.”

“Fucking _hell,”_ Ron breathes. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay!” Hermione says, eyes watering.

“He’s a stupid, self-sacrificing prat,” Harry tells them. 

Ginny looks at him pointedly. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Fred laughs. “What a hero. Who knew our George was such a romantic?”

“With the way he pines like a twelve year old girl, none of us,” snickers Ron.

“I take great offense to that,” Ginny mutters, standing on his foot.

“What happened to you guys?” George asks. “You weren’t found, were you?”

“No,” Fred says. “Dobby was brilliant—started coming back for people and whisking them away. Then we got Harry’s message and found the nearest hidden passages and what-not. We’re lucky so many of us have learnt disillusionment charms already; I don’t think anyone actually got caught at all.”

Harry sighs and lets his head fall back against the wall. “I hope that’s true.”

“Wait, what d’you mean, Harry’s message?” George says.

Ron frowns and fishes out his galleon. “Here, on the coins. Look, it says to hide right here where he usually changes the date.” 

“We’re lucky they didn’t look too closely at our ones, then,” Harry mutters. 

“When did you do that?” George asks, examining the coin in his good hand. “I didn’t see you do it.”

“Er,” Harry says. He frowns. “I… I just grabbed them and hoped, I think.”

“Blimey,” Ginny blurts.

“Harry, that’s incredible!” Hermione says.

“Is it?” Harry asks weakly.

“That’s some impressive magic, mate,” Ron agrees. “Wordless _and_ wandless.”

Harry frowns further, looking at his own coins. “I suppose?”

“Harry, how do you usually change the dates on them?” Fred asks.

“Well, I tap them with my wand and…” he trails off. “Actually, I don’t know.” 

He twists the sickle between his fingers, watching the lamplight glint off its edges. “I used to tap them with my wand and make the numbers change, but I don’t think I’ve done that for a while.”

“Harry, have you just been telling them to change with your mind?” Hermione asks.

“I… I must have, I guess.”

George’s hand creeps up his wrist and Harry looks up, blinking at the four other stunned gazes he finds. 

“Harry, that’s pretty damn impressive,” George tells him, grinning a little tiredly. “I might even say, _incredibly hot.”_

“Oh Jesus, if you two are just going to keep flirting I’m leaving,” Ginny says.

“Hold on a minute, I want to know how Harry got his patronus to do that thing with his voice!” Ron cuts in.

“Oh, how did it work?” Harry asks eagerly, perching back on the edge of George’s bed as they pull up chairs.

“Well, we were all sitting in the common room waiting for you to turn up again—Hermione was going just about spare, of course—and after _ages_ we see your patronus come flying in,” Ron says. “It stops just in front of us, right, and then sort of changes shape a bit, and your voice starts coming out of it. That’s when you told us that Umbridge had taken you, Dumbledore had disappeared and that George was in the hospital wing.”

“There were these shapes coming out of it at the same time,” Fred adds. “It actually showed us some things, pretty vaguely, mind, like Umbridge in the office and Dumbledore facing down the Minister. It kind of looked like bits of your memories.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry grins. “I can’t believe it worked! I couldn’t keep it stable enough when I was practising with Remus back at Headquarters, but that’s great…”

“Harry, you must be exhausted,” Hermione says quietly. Harry frowns and then immediately has to cover a yawn. 

Well, now that she’s mentioned it, he is quite. 

Madam Pomfrey, with her consistently perfect timing, decides that visiting time is over. George is asleep before they’re gone, and Harry manages a glimpse of Marietta over his shoulder before the door shuts behind him. 

Madam Pomfrey hasn’t cleared up the boils, yet. Harry thinks she deserves it.

######  _\- x -_

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” says Ernie Macmillan the next morning, eyeing the new Decree on the wall as they return from Herbology. “They couldn’t keep him away in our second year and they won’t be able to do it now.” He grins and lowers his voice so that Harry, Ron and Hermione have to lean in to hear “And you know, the Fat Friar told me this morning—Umbridge tried to get back into his office last night after they’d searched the castle and grounds for him; she couldn’t get past the gargoyle, we think it’s sealed itself against her!” He smirks. “Apparently, she had a right little tantrum.”

“Oh, I’m sure she really fancied herself sitting all the way up there in the Head’s office!” Hermione says bitingly. “Lording it over the rest of our professors, the selfish, overgrown, power-crazy old—”

“Now, do you _really_ want to finish that sentence, Granger?”

Malfoy slips out of the shadows behind them as they make their way across the Entrance Hall, followed closely by Crabbe and Goyle. They stop and turn on the spot to glare at him.

“I’m afraid this means I’m going to have to dock both Hufflepuff and Gryffindor a few points.”

“Only teachers can dictate house points, Malfoy,” Ernie says at once.

“Yeah, and we’re prefects too, remember?” Ron says.

“I _know_ prefects can’t move points, Weasel King,” Malfoy sneers. Crabbe and Goyle snigger. “We, however, are members of the Inquisitorial Squad—”

“The _what?”_ Hermione asks, sounding like she’s trying not to laugh with her disbelief.

“The Inquisitorial Squad, Granger,” Malfoy says, waving a hand to the green-tailed medal inscribed with an _‘I’_ on the front of his robes, just below his prefect’s badge. “A hand-selected group of students loyal to the Ministry.” He finally glances over at Harry, meeting the gaze that Harry’s been trying to bore through his head. He gives a small but certain nod of his head, and Harry narrows his eyes, but not in distaste—more _curiosity._

“Anyway, members of the Inquisitorial Squad _have_ been granted the power to dock points… So, Granger I’ll have five from you for being rude about our new Headmistress; five from you, Macmillan, for contradicting me; five from you, Potter, because I still have blood on my robes, and hmm… Weasley, your shirt’s untucked, so that’ll be another five from you.”

Ron goes to pull his wand out of his pocket but Harry throws an arm up in front of him.

“Oh, wise move, Potter,” Malfoy snipes. “Let’s see what nonsense you can pull to try to get all those points back, eh? New Head, new times… Do behave now, all of you.”

They stride off to lunch laughing meanly, but Harry only rolls his eyes. No matter how pathetic they were last August, Malfoy’s lot don’t have anything on Dudley’s.

“He’s bluffing,” Ernie says, outraged and worried. “He can’t be allowed to dock points, that’s ludicrous! It would completely undermine the system of authority…”

But Harry, Ron and Hermione have already turned to the house point hourglasses on the wall, and are just in time to see the last of Malfoy’s reductions trickle back to their holding spheres. Even more seem to be making the journey upwards as they stand there. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had been neck and neck just this morning; now the only glass that appears unchanged is Slytherin’s.

“Noticed it, have you?” Fred calls down the stairs he’s coming to the bottom of. George is beside him, arm strapped to his side and sleeves fluttering, empty. He should, probably, still be in the hospital wing, which is why Harry tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at him. 

He grins. “Oh, hey there Macmillan! Have you got Sue Li to realise you exist yet?” 

Ernie chokes and goes red, but doesn’t reply.

“Malfoy just docked us five points each for doing fuck-all,” Harry grumbles. “Something about it being my fault he has blood on his robes.”

George grins wider. “I hope it never comes out. Montague tried to do us during break.”

 _“Do_ you?” Hermione repeats faintly at Harry’s side.

“What d’you mean, ‘tried’?” Ron asks.

“He didn’t quite manage to get the words out before we shoved him head-first into that vanishing cabinet on the first floor,” Fred says, smiling shark-like.

“You’ll get into _awful_ trouble!” Hermione splutters. Beside her, more crystals fly up out of the Gryffindor points glass.

“Not until he reappears, we won’t,” Fred argues, “and that might take weeks—Merlin knows where we’ve sent him. And anyway, we don’t really care about getting into trouble anymore.”

Harry huffs. “What did I say _just_ last night?” he asks. “What did _McGonagall_ say?”

“Have you _ever_ cared?” Hermione adds flippantly.

“Course we have, a bit,” George says. “Not been expelled yet, have we?”

“We’ve always known where to draw the line,” Fred scoffs, even though he’s never been the one to do it.

“Of course, we might have put a toe across it occasionally…”

“But we’ve always stopped short of _true_ mayhem.”

Harry runs his tongue angrily behind his bottom teeth. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”

“Well, with Dumbledore gone, we reckon a little bit of mayhem might just be what our new Head deserves!” George says.

“You musn’t!” Hermione whispers. “She really will expel you!”

“Hermione, darling, you’re not getting it,” Fred says. “We’re not fussed about staying anymore. We’d walk out right now if George wasn’t so _attached_ and I wasn’t so determined to do our bit for old Dumbles. And anyway,” he checks his watch, “phase one is about to begin, so I recommend you all toddle off to lunch so that the teachers know you weren’t anything to do with it.”

“You’re leaving?” Harry asks, stepping up to George. “You could have said something.”

George winces. “Not last night, not with Poppy _and_ Minnie hanging around… I am sorry, though. We’re not going yet if we can get away with it.”

Harry sighs. In a moment of pure weakness, he lets his forehead drop forward to rest on George’s chest. 

“Be careful,” he mumbles. “Don’t go fucking up your shoulder, either.”

“I’ll do my best,” George says, tipping Harry’s head back with a gentle finger. “Off you pop, now. Wouldn’t want to get caught associating with us.”

Both Fred and George give them a teasing wave as they disappear into the swelling crowd heading down the stairs to lunch. 

######  _\- x -_

The floor of Umbridge’s office shudders as a huge, resounding _BOOM_ echoes somewhere below them. 

“What was—?” Umbridge is sprung to her feet and grips the edge of her desk for support. She looks towards the door, and in her moment of inattention Harry tips his veritaserum-laced tea into the nearest vase of dried flowers. Also below, a large number of people are running and screaming.

He smiles.

“Back to lunch you go, Potter!” Umbridge shrills, raising her wand and dashing out of her office.

Harry does no such thing, giving her a good few seconds’ head start before rushing after her, heart aching for the chained brooms he leaves behind.

The source of the disruption is not hard to find; one floor down sees the reign of utter pandemonium. Somebody, or _bodies,_ appear to have set off a truly enormous crate of enchanted fireworks.

Shimmering dragons sculpted entirely of red and gold and green sparks undulate and soar up and down the corridors and hall of staircases, breathing intimidating pillars of fire and emitting loud, gunpowder-y bangs as they go. Hot pink, five foot Catherine wheels whizz and spiral through the air like lethal flying saucers, spitting and hissing and showering everything with hot sparks. Rockets with long tails of glittery gold and silver stars ricochet off the walls and explode at random, causing huge great booming noises that threaten to burst Harry’s eardrums and blast him back five paces. He spies, most amusingly of all, a whole array of colour-changing sparklers writing rude words and phrases in the air of their own accord, each of them remaining in suspension like a flagrate charm and floating off to go terrorise the lower years. Firecrackers explode and crackle like muggle artillery everywhere Harry can think to look, and instead of burning themselves out and dissipating they seem to be rapidly gathering strength and momentum.

Harry watches with unbridled joy as Umbridge and Filch duck and dodge and flee from the fireworks’ assault. 

“Stupefy!” Umbridge shrieks, but instead of dropping to the floor, the rocket she’d targeted explodes even more violently, singeing a hole in a nearby portrait of an otherwise serene-looking witch. She runs, just about in time, to take refuge at next door’s cards table. 

“Don’t stun them, Filch!” she screams.

“Right you are, Headmistress!” Filch replies breathlessly, attacking one ferocious Catherine wheel with a broom he pulls from a nearby cupboard. As a squib, of course, Argus Filch is more likely to stop them with a bucket of water than magic of _any_ description.

When the broomhead inevitably catches fire, Harry, wheezing with laughter, decides enough’s enough fun for the moment and sprints in a crouch towards a door he knows to be concealed behind a nearby tapestry. He slips through it and collides with orchestrators Fred and George Weasley themselves, who have hidden behind it and are shaking apart at the seams with suppressed mirth.

“Incredible!” Harry gasps, throwing his arms around George’s waist and laughing into his (left) shoulder. “Fucking un- _real!”_

“Cheers,” George replies, face still in his hand as he wipes away tears of laughter. “Oh, I hope she tries vanishing them next… They multiply by ten every time you try!”

Harry can barely breathe with the convulsing of his lungs but he reaches up and grabs George’s face and snogs him soundly, safely sequestered in their dark hidey-hole beside his brother. They can barely go for a few seconds without snorting with laughter, and Fred’s too busy clinging to the wall to really care, but it’s the lightest and most victorious they’ve felt in months and they’re all as reluctant as each other to let the feeling go.

Harry grins against George’s mouth once again, opening his eyes to watch the occasional flashes of sparklight flare orange and pink across the face in front of him.

“I love you,” he whispers, and George laughs even harder than before.

“I love you too,” he replies, and uses his one good arm to pull Harry back into their kiss.

######  _\- x -_

Harry takes a step towards the pensive on Snape’s desk. He takes a second and a third, until he’s gazing down at the swirling silver concoction of memories. Clouds of white billow beneath the surface, curling and twisting and threatening to take shape as he watches. His breath fogs the surface of it, and he almost wishes they would.

He jerks back, suddenly, and takes a sharp breath.

He remembers what happened the first time he did this.

Snape will be back soon.

Harry knows what comes of repeating past mistakes. Hermione has drilled _that_ into him.

He shoulders his bag and marches resolutely from the room, slamming the door behind him and not once looking back.

His lessons pick up the next week, and he makes as little progress as always. 

He doesn’t look towards the pensive again.

######  _\- x -_

“Ginny said you nearly cried when she gave you the Easter eggs from Mum,” George says.

“I did not,” Harry scoffs, feeling his face heat all the same. He had, nearly.

George’s hands (both of them, now it’s a week later and he can move freely without so much as a tingle) soothe down his arms as he lies back against his chest.

“It’s all right, you know,” he murmurs. “None of us think badly of you for it.”

Harry lets his head loll against George’s shoulder and noses at his neck. One of the small red marks Harry had left there peeks out from beneath his collar, and Harry smiles.

“I’m just not used to it,” he quietly admits. “Everyone else gets presents, I don’t; that’s the way of life for me. I’m not… It still feels too good to be true, sometimes. Especially with everything going on…”

George hums and kisses the crown of his head, hands joining over Harry’s midriff as he hugs him closer. “You’re a Weasley now, you know, so you’d best get used to it sharpish.”

Harry huffs a small laugh and wriggles around to reach his arms around George’s back. George’s knees bracket him and close in to hold them both upright, hidden amongst the wilderness around the back of greenhouse three.

“I still can’t believe you’re _trying_ to get expelled,” he mumbles.

“Not _trying,”_ George says, “just seeing how far we can push her before she snaps.”

“She is going to come raining down on you like you’d never believe… She’s even been reapproving Filch’s old mediaeval torture punishments.”

George cringes. “Yeah, don’t know if there’s anyone in the castle he hasn’t made sure knows. Kind of counter-intuitive, if he wants them to give him an opportunity to use it…” 

Harry snorts. The April breeze ruffles through his hair, chilly for a surprisingly kind tempered day. Long grass rustles all around them and the shouts and shrieks of the fourth-years and below bounce up from the lake and grounds. Really, Harry should be with Hermione and Ron in the library, but he can barely get a moment to himself at all these days, and with everything looking to go further and further downhill…

“Come with us,” George says abruptly. 

“What?” Harry says.

“There’s no way we’re letting that witch get her hands on us, we decided that long ago, and there’s no need for you to stick around and put yourself in harm’s way, either—in fact, I’d be an awful lot happier if you didn’t.”

Harry’s arms tighten around him, clinging to the solid warmth and kindness and safety that radiates from him.

“Where are you going?” he asks, throat tight.

“We bought that place in Diagon, after a bit more consideration. There’s a flat above it we’re planning to stay in to weather the storm Mum’s bound to kick up… It’s a nice place. It’d be nicer if you were there with us.”

(In another life, Harry might have said yes without hesitation. He might have leapt without looking back and escaped the Ministry’s tyranny on his own broom, on his own terms. He might never have taken his OWLs or his NEWTs, he might have lived a life of laughter and invention with Fred and George and eventually Fred’s girlfriends above the shop in their cosy little flat, and he might have been happy.

In another life, one where his parents had never left him, he might have done it all the same.

In another life, of course, he wouldn’t be here in George’s arms at all.)

“I wish I could,” he says, and his voice cracks.

George holds him like he’s afraid of letting go. He murmurs apologies and promises into his hair that neither of them can hear. He tilts his face up and kisses him on the brow, the temple, the nose, the cheek. He kisses his lips like he’s his _lifeblood,_ like he’s the elixir from a Philosopher’s Stone and George is a dying man, and then Harry finds himself breathless and gasping for a whole new different reason.

“I promise I’ll write,” George says, and it feels too final for such a quiet goodbye.

######  _\- x -_

“You just can’t go through Hogwarts without doing this at least _once_ in your life,” he scoffs, hands running down Harry’s thighs to the backs of his knees.

“How do you know I won’t find someone else to help me?” Harry teases, and his head snaps back to bounce off the changing room wall a mere half second later. “I’m joking!” he whines, “I’m joking.”

“You’d better be,” George says, but Harry can feel him grinning against his skin. His fingers dig through George’s hair, gripping and tugging on the soft strands and thriving on the feel of them and their striking, daring contrast against his skin. He looks absolutely gorgeous, flushed and happy and so thoroughly absorbed in _Harry_ that Harry’s dizzy with it. 

That could, of course, be the lack of blood flowing through his brain, but all the same.

“Is this an— _mmf!_ —a common rite of passage?” he asks, breathless.

“The girls are usually much more discreet,” George replies. “Now, darling, are we going to talk, or can I keep going?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, and shoves a hand over his mouth. 

George makes good on his promise of seeing stars.

######  _\- x -_

Harry wanders down the shelves, trailing his fingers lightly along the wood as he passes section after section. Ron’s sent him on a mission to find a very specific book called something along the lines of _Uses of Transfiguration in Healing,_ and he didn’t even have the decency to remember the author’s name. Harry mutters some of the titles under his breath as he passes, turning from one aisle into the next without much luck. He’s almost at the very back of the library now, somewhere he hasn’t really bothered to venture before without the need for any of the hyper-specific volumes Pomfrey hides back here.

He turns into the next aisle and spies someone’s foot in the air at the other end, hidden behind the shelf. He takes no notice of it, still skimming the spines for Ron’s bloody book until he gets to the end of the row and stops in his tracks.

He _had_ been wondering where Hermione was, assuming she’d run off to organise her stacks of revision notes in her dorm or something equally as strange. Quite unfortunately, he no longer needs to guess; his eyes land on the back of her head as she leans over Padma Patil, judging by the discarded blue robes, locked at the lips and snogging fiercely. One of her hands slides between the panels of Padma’s conspicuously open shirt, moving in a disturbingly recognisable way, and the other, trembling arm disappears below the surface of their table.

Harry backs up quickly, spine ramrod straight and eyes wide. He turns at the end of the row and starts walking quickly back towards their table, pushing at Ron’s chest when he almost collides with him.

“It’s not over there,” he says, throat tight as he tries to neither choke nor laugh.

“You all right, Harry?” Ron asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Harry does laugh, then, sitting heavily down in front of his barely-started essay. 

“I’m fine, Ron, everything’s fine. Just find something other than healing to talk about, yeah?”

######  _\- x -_

“Potter!” Professor McGonagall says, towering over Umbridge most impressively. “If it is this that you wish, I shall assist you in becoming an Auror if it is the last thing I do!”

Umbridge glowers, and Harry can’t quite swallow past the knot in his throat.

He listens to his Professors shout at each other all the way down the corridor.

######  _\- x -_

Harry, Ron and Hermione are only just leaving Umbridge’s class when they hear the unmistakable sound of a new Weasley menace going off in the distance. Above them, screams and yells are flying through the hallways, making everyone leaving nearby classrooms pause and look up at the ceiling in hesitant fear.

“Come on!” Harry says as Umbridge comes storming out of the class behind them. He grabs hold of Ron’s wrist and runs towards the end of the corridor, unsurprised to pass most of the Inquisitorial Squad coming the other way.

“Professor!” Pansy Parkinson squeaks, and Ron makes a noise and changes direction to head down instead of up.

“What have they done this time?” Hermione despairs, clattering down the stairs just behind them. “I swear, if she catches them it’s over!”

Ron leads them down one corridor and up two sets of stairs to the next, where the whole of Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor seems to have turned into one giant, mud soaked swamp.

“Oh my god!” Hermione gasps. “This is amazing!”

“Where are they?” Ron asks, looking around at all of the drenched, green, and screaming students.

“On the other side of the castle, if they have any sense!” Harry replies, spying Umbridge over at the other end of the corridor. “Come on!”

They take off back down through the school, dodging students covered in strange liquids and friends stopped to howl with laughter. Harry yanks them out of the way of a wheezing Filch who appears to be headed towards Umbridge’s quarters and barrels down the nearest staircase into the Entrance Hall.

A small crowd has gathered there in refuge, hugging the walls in what seems to be a poor attempt at escaping the confusion. Harry, Ron and Hermione join them, leaning against the end of the staircase to catch their breath. Before long a pair of cheering, whooping redheads appears at the top, sprinting down towards them two steps at a time and grinning from ear to ear.

“The gig’s up!” Fred shouts. “She saw us!”

 _“What?”_ Ron shouts. “You can’t be serious?”

“One hundred percent, little Ronnie-boy,” George says, slowing down as they get to them. “I think it’s time we make our daring escape.”

“You’re joking,” Harry says breathlessly. “You can’t be—?”

“She’ll be after us in a moment,” Fred says, moving them farther into the throng. “Malfoy headed them off a few corridors up, but they’ll realise soon.”

Ron squawks. “Malfoy did—?!”

“Yeah, I know, me too,” Fred says. “Anyway, I’m glad we shoved our last little trick up our sleeves—”

Harry turns to George and throws his arms around his neck to hug him. It’s brief and it’s sweet and it _hurts._

“Last chance to come with,” George whispers. Harry laughs gently against his cheek.

“Don’t you dare die out there,” he replies. He lets go of George’s shirt and takes a shaky step back. 

“WEASLEYS!” comes a howling voice from the top of the stairs.

“Fred!” cries someone else over Ron’s shoulder. 

Angelina comes running through the crowd, glancing hastily back at Umbridge. She runs right up to Fred and throws one hand into his hair to pull him down the inch she needs to kiss his cheek.

“For luck!” she tells him, and dashes off to the other side of the hall.

“Don’t expect anything from me!” Alicia calls, close on her tail. Fred gazes after them with his mouth hanging open stupidly.

George throws Harry a lazy salute before he elbows Fred in the side. The crowd parts to the sound of heels clicking furiously on marble, leaving a large open ring around the twins. The Inquisitorial Squad have joined the group, looking very proud of themselves for doing not very much. Harry can see most of their teachers present, too, and even Peeves is floating curiously above the twins’ heads.

“So!” Umbridge shrieks, coming to a stop just a few steps above them. “You think it’s amusing to turn an entire school corridor into a swamp, do you?”

“Pretty amusing, I’d say,” Fred agrees, now grinning broadly.

Filch forces a path through to Umbridge, several papers clutched in his shaking hands.

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress!” he wheezes. “I’ve got the form and I’ve got the whips waiting upstairs… Oh, let me get them…!” 

Harry sees George scrunch his nose in distaste.

“Very good, Argus!” Umbridge barks. _“You two_ are about to be the first to learn what happens to any wrong-doers in my school!”

“You know,” Fred says, turning to his brother, “I don’t think I fancy that much, do you?”

“Not much, no,” George agrees lightly, shrugging his crossed arms. “Doesn’t sound much like fun to me.”

“I think we might have outgrown our full-time education,” Fred continues.

George hums loudly. “Been feeling that way myself, recently.” 

“Time to test our talents out in the real world, d’you reckon?”

“Definitely.”

Before Umbridge can say another word against them, the two fling their wands into the air and shout, _“Accio brooms!”_

Distantly above them, a loud crash shatters the sudden hush. Harry looks up the staircase in time to see Fred and George’s broomsticks sailing through the air, still trailing the heavy chain and iron rebar Umbridge had fastened them to the wall with. They turn sharply into the hall and fly straight into the twins’ outstretched hands, widening their already bright, gleeful grins.

“I don’t think we’ll be seeing _you,”_ Fred says, placing one foot on the stirrup of his upright broom and floating up above the gathered crowd.

“Don’t bother keeping in touch!” George adds, doing the same and veering backwards. They each fish something long and cone-shaped quite literally out of their sleeves and light their pointed ends with their wands.

“If anyone fancies buying their very own Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs,” Fred shouts in a booming, carrying voice, “head on over to Ninety-Three, Diagon Alley—the new premises of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes!”

“Special discounts for any Hogwarts students who swear to use them to get rid of this old bat!” George adds, cackling.

“STOP THEM!” Umbridge demands, but by now it’s far, far too late. The twins settle expertly onto their brooms and wave their sparkling paper cones in the air.

“Ready Fred?” George calls.

“Ready George!” Fred replies.

“Give her hell from us, Peeves!” they both shout, and fling the cones up into the vaulted ceiling.

The cones spark and crackle and explode, deafeningly, over Umbridge’s head, forming another ginormous purple hybrid dragon. Fred and George heckle from the air as they swoop down towards her and high-five as they make their pass, turning and speeding straight out of great front doors and into the open, clouded sky.

Students scream and cheer and pour out into the courtyard after them, followed by the bellowing dragon who soars up, up into the sky and explodes into hundreds of firecrackers that whizz and spin into a large, noisy, orange ‘W’.

Fred and George fly off into the distance to an applause never heard before, and Harry beams.

######  _\- x -_

With such a noisy, showmanly departure, Fred and George land themselves as Hogwarts’ newest student legends. Within hours the story spreads to absolutely everyone in the castle, and by the next afternoon even some eyewitnesses have managed to half-convince themselves that a number of dungbombs, a loosed cage of Cornish pixies, and a few dozen self-igniting Fry-Bees (Fred’s no-burn, flaming-spitting, ring-shaped frisbees) had been involved in the display. Everyone takes it upon themselves to interpret their show of defiance as inspiration, leading Filch on wild chases that run him in circles for weeks on end. 

Despite his new permissions for torture, Filch’s new, unforeseen problem is the sheer number of troublemakers taking up the slack; he no longer knows which way to turn when a new Weasley product is set off in the halls, and not one person is willing to help him. The freshest Hogwarts fashion quickly becomes a near-permanent bubble-head charm, even amongst teachers, as the corridors become choked with fumes and smokescreens.

More than anyone, it seems that Peeves takes the twins’ parting words deeply to heart. In the week after they leave, he causes more destruction and chaos than Harry’s ever seen in his last five years. Mrs Norris finds herself trapped in no less than two suits of armour, the whole of the Defence corridor ends up painted blinding orange and lime green, and the school wakes up one morning to every single staircase crawling with giant slugs.

The laugh of it all, however, is that he refuses to defer to anyone but Professor McGonagall, the Bloody Baron, Ginny Weasley, and Harry himself. Ron pretends to throw a fit when he finds out, but he’s too busy tracking Umbridge across the map to do it properly while they confer in an abandoned third floor classroom.

“It unscrews the other way,” McGonagall hisses as they pass Peeves trying to loosen the fixings of one of the large, deadly-looking chandeliers. He giggles and cackles and swoops through lessons, tipping over cauldrons in the dungeon and knocking stacks of parchment in Umbridge’s classes out of her windows and into her fire.

“It’ll be my fault Fred and George left, just you wait,” Ron says darkly, in the middle of a Transfiguration lesson that, miraculously, has not yet been disturbed by Umbridge’s screaming. “She’ll say I should have stopped them flying away, grabbed onto their brooms or some nonsense. Mum’s always had us on about being responsible.”

“If she _does_ say that then it’ll be terribly unfair!” Hermione says, mending his cracked teacup with a lazy flick. “You couldn’t have done anything, and Filch was going to flay them alive! I’m sure she won’t, anyway—I mean, if they have premises in Diagon Alley, they must have been planning it for ages.”

They both turn to Harry, who tries to look innocent as possible.

“Oh, stop _moping,”_ Hermione sighs.

“I’m not—!”

“That’s another thing,” Ron interrupts, hitting his teacup hard enough to buckle its legs. “How the hell did they get those premises? It’s a bit dodgy, isn’t it? They’ll need _loads_ of galleons for anywhere on Diagon, and Mum’ll want to know how they got it for sure…”

“Well, yes, I had been wondering about that too,” Hermione says, watching her teacup run neat circles around Harry’s as he works on persuading the stubby legs a little longer. “I thought Mundungus might have persuaded them to buy his stolen goods off him.”

“He has _not,”_ Harry snorts, and finally the knees shoot out past the underside of the teacup.

“How do you know?” Hermione and Ron ask together, looking extremely pleased with themselves.

He sighs.

“Because… Because _I_ gave them the money. I gave them my lot of the Triwizard prize money last June, and then a bit more for their birthdays just gone. I didn’t need it, and it’s all for a good cause, isn’t it?”

Ron and Hermione grin at each other for a moment, during which Hermione’s teacup collides with Harry’s and they both go teetering on the edge of the desk.

“I knew you’d have something to do with it, you absolute sap,” says Hermione smartly.

“This is brilliant!” Ron says. “It’s your fault now, Harry! Mum can’t blame me for anything—can I tell her?”

“I suppose you ought to if people are going to think they’ve been doing underhanded deals,” Harry says. “The last thing they need is the Auror department out for their blood.”

“Already got that, didn’t they,” Ron mutters. Harry grimaces. 

######  _\- x -_

When the exam period arrives, it feels rather like the entire year has lost its collective mind. Ron has long lost the joy of winning the Quidditch House Cup, impressive though it had been (even if Harry and Hermione had been too busy dodging Grawp’s snatching hands and the centaurs’ overeager arrows to see), and Hermione is more fervently unbearable than ever. Everyone spends all day and half the night revising before their first Charms exam, and in the morning they all stand quivering outside the Great Hall.

“You may begin,” Professor McGonagall announces, turning the large, wood-framed hourglass at the top of the hall as she does so.

Harry turns the first page over, catching Hermione already scribbling away out of the corner of his eye. 

_Question 1. Give a) the incantation, and b) describe the wand movement required to make an object fly._

With a fleeting memory of a knobbly troll’s club soaring high into the ceiling of a lower-floor girls’ bathroom and landing with a thunk against an over-large skull, Harry smiles and begins to write.

######  _\- x -_

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope you’re doing well in the Jaws of Death! It feels great to finally be out of the cage, doing our thing, only we do wish you lot didn’t have to put up with all that joyless nonsense in our absence. Do let us know what you’ve been up to, what great adventures I’m sure you’ve had since, and all of the ridiculous things Granger’s been doing while she panics over exams; we could do with some news and a laugh._

_Mum’s sent us plenty of howlers, and thanks to Ron dropping you in it, we’ve had a hard time of it trying to convince her we only accepted your kindness because you insisted. It’s strangely quiet with just the two of us here—you’d think we’d be used to our own company, but I suppose it’s never really been_ _just_ _us on our own. I miss having you around, that’s for certain… You make a jolly good pillow, did you know that? I’d love to show you what we’ve been up to, but I suppose that’ll have to wait until you’re finished for the summer._

_Oh, and by the way, Hermione gave us each another of those charmed things, only this time it’s a silver one. She said they’re the same as a few others she’s made, so I suppose I can’t be saying anything of the more scandalous nature. Shame, that. Anyway, speaking of, aren’t you glad I dragged you down pitch-side for one last hurrah? That was fun, and I’m glad I got to do it with you. You would have been seriously lacking in your Hogwarts educational experience if I hadn’t, and then I’d never be able to forgive myself. Fred thinks Ron needs to get his arse in gear if he doesn’t want to lose out, and that maybe he’ll even find someone willing to join him now he’s snapped into shape and won us the cup. I’m still unsure of that, but I wish him luck all the same._

_I could ramble on forever, but then you’d think I’m truly mad and also give up reading halfway through, so I’ll wish you the best of luck with your exams (you’ll do brill) and remind you to make sure to think of me often!_

_You know what I’d usually say here._

_Much love,_

_The better looking Weasley x_

######  _\- x -_

Harry takes his greatest satisfaction from his Defence Against the Dark Arts exams. 

His written paper is a cinch, especially when he finds he can recall Moony’s critique of every single homework and practise essay with ease. The practical exam borders on _enjoyable_ as he demonstrates each and every counter-jinx and defensive spell with confidence and a smile, right underneath Umbridge’s nose. 

“Oh, bravo!” squeaks wizened Professor Tofty when Harry banishes the approaching dementor boggart without so much fear as a blink. “Very good indeed, Mr Potter! Well, I think that will be all… unless…”

He leans forward a few inches and lowers his voice. “I heard, from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that you can produce a fully corporeal patronus? For a bonus mark?” 

Harry grins. “Of course, sir,” he says, and raises his wand.

He looks to Professor Umbridge and imagines Ron, Ginny, Fred, George and the rest of Gryffindor house standing around her, jeering as Dumbledore and McGonagall throw her from the school.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ he cries, and Prongs, three times his usual size, bursts forth into the room.

All of the examiners and their students turn to gape as he canters the length of the hall and back, pawing at the teachers’ dias and nosing through the door where the remaining examinees are waiting. Harry grins and holds a hand out for him to come closer, gazing up at his huge, branching antlers.

“Incredible!” Professor Tofty cries, clapping his knotted hands enthusiastically. “Just magnificent! You are free to go, Mr Potter!”

Harry strides down the hall and passes Umbridge with his head held high and a grin on his lips, ignoring the nasty smile she shoots him as the enlarged form of Prongs trots by. Harry pats his flank and lets him dissipate before Hermione can come running up and berate him for showing off, and allows himself a short moment to feel proud of his performance.

######  _\- x -_

_Dear Trouble the First,_

_Thank you for your last letter, it really lifted our spirits. I’m glad you’re doing all right, especially with your mum on your tail. I can’t wait to see you again—I bet I’m missing you more!_

_(Got your message about the money and I’ll send something through soon, let me know if there’s a problem on your end.)_

_It’s just not the same now that the school’s basically a warzone. Peeves has been running riot for weeks since the Great Weasley Escape and no one can get him to stop. I’m not sure anyone wants to either, and most of us are way too busy with revision now anyway. Rumour has it that there’s still one of those Whizz-bangs stuck somewhere on the second floor and no one’s been able to catch it._

_I kind of wish I’d caved and told you about the codenames you tried to torture out of me back at HQ so we could use them now, but alas, I had to keep them secret while they were needed. I suppose I can always tell you over summer, but one can hope that there’ll no longer be anyone reading our post by then. Did you know that out of the remaining few letters I’m getting about that Quibbler article, all of them are ones telling me I’m mental? Funny how that works, isn’t it…_

_Think I did well in my DADA! Prof. asked me to show him Prongs, and he was great! Still have four more exams to go, but hopefully they’ll be over soon and we’ll be coming home._

_See you soon,_

_Lots of love,_

_Trouble the Second_

######  _\- x -_

“Twenty minutes to go!” Professor Tofty says. Hermione jumps back into her star chart with a frantic quill, and Harry realises that he’s mislabelled Venus as Mars in his distraction. He scribbles out the correct label just in time to hear a loud _BANG_ from the grounds, where they’d just watched Umbridge and five accomplices enter Hagrid’s hut. A number of pained noises echo across the tower as several people smack themselves in the face with the ends of their telescopes in their haste to see over the railings to what’s happening below.

The door to Hagrid’s has been blown open, allowing the light flooding from inside to illuminate the scene quite clearly. Hagrid, a massive figure against the dark backdrop, brandishes his fist at the six people surrounding him, all of whom are sending stunner after stunner his way.

“No!” Hermione cries, hanging over the railing.

“My dear, this is an examination!” Professor Tofty squeaks, but Hermione barely spares him a sour look. Red, crackling stunners are still bouncing around outside in the kerfuffle, though Hagrid seems to be somehow resistant.

“Be reasonable, Hagrid!” one voice carries up to them.

“REASONABLE!” Hagrid roars. “Reasonable be _damned,_ Dawlish! Yers won’t take me like this!”

The tiny outline of Fang leaps and snarls between Hagrid and the aurors. One large jet of light hits him directly in the flank and he falls to the ground, closely followed by Hagrid’s howl of fury. He lifts the body of Fang’s attacker and flings them ten feet across the ground where they crumple and do not get back to their feet.

Hermione gasps, one hand tight on the railing and the other reaching for her wand. Ron grabs her waist as she nearly topples over the edge and tries to wrestle her wand arm down.

“Hermione, we’re too far away! Who knows what we’ll hit!”

“Oh no!” Parvati gasps, also leaning over the parapet and pointing to the steps of the castle, bathed once more in golden light as the doors admit a tall, slender cloaked figure. The figure strides across the lawn with tremendous speed, heading straight for the scuffle.

“Now really!” Professor Tofty exclaims. “You have only sixteen minutes left, you know!”

“How dare you!” the tall figure cries. “How _dare_ you!”

“It’s McGonagall,” Hermione says, looking scared.

“Leave him alone!” Professor McGonagall continues. _“Alone,_ I say! On what grounds do you have to attack him? He has done nothing, _nothing,_ to—”

“No!” Hermione cries, this time both she and Ron flinging their wands out towards the group. 

Lavender and Parvati scream, as the remaining aurors have turned around and each let off another round of stunning spells without hesitation. 

Hermione and Ron had been too late; all four spells hit McGonagall square in the chest and she collapses on the spot. Their spells land half a moment later, knocking one auror back into the side of Hagrid’s hut and another several metres into the air before dropping them.

“Galloping gargoyles!” yelps Professor Tofty, exam forgotten. “Without even a warning! Outrageous behaviour!”

“COWARDS!” Hagrid bellows below. “RUDDY COWARDS!”

Hermione screams in rage, flinging out spell after spell and shortly joined by Harry, Lavender, Dean, Fay and Ron.

Professor Tofty makes a strangled noise. “Oh, I say! Good heavens, excuse me! I must ask you to desist at once!”

None of them pay him any heed. A large wall of earth rises between Hagrid and the remaining aurors and quickly freezes, shattering on next impact and sending everyone diving for cover. Two of the aurors are flung viciously away and one gets frozen to the spot they stand on. Hagrid doubles over, and for a moment Harry worries they’ve hit him with a stray spell, but he quickly rights himself and is now carrying what looks to be a large black sack over his shoulder—Fang.

“Get him!” Umbridge screams, _“Get him!”_ as Professor Tofty continues to try deterring the Gryffindors’ tower assault. They do stop, after a while, once Hagrid has cleared the treeline and all but one auror is unmoving on the ground. None of them have been stupid enough to aim for Umbridge herself, though Harry would hazard that there are numerous scorch marks all around her.

Hermione looks at Harry, hair flying and breathing harsh with anger and exertion. Ron is still staring down at the grounds in mute disbelief.

Harry, for once, can’t think of anything to say. He doesn’t think there’s anything left.

######  _\- x -_

“Hagrid’s gone and McGonagall’s unconscious in the hospital wing,” Harry says, facing his godfather in his enchanted mirror. “Umbridge attacked them, we saw it from the Astronomy Tower.”

“Oh dear, it really is getting bad over there,” Sirius mutters. “I’m afraid the most I can tell you is that Fred and George have been by. They’re doing okay, but no one has any other news.”

Harry examines his silver sickle while Sirius ponders. _Hearing you loud and clear — F &G, _ is still inscribed around the rim from their sound check; the same should be said for Ron, Hermione and now Ginny’s coins. 

He closes his fist around the coin and closes his eyes, thinking hard. When he opens them again, the words _McG & Hgr taken out. S knows — H, _ are etched where the old ones had been.

“Still no sign of Dumbledore…” Sirius tells him through gritted teeth. Harry hears the sound of a chair scraping over wood as the mirror shudders. “This would be a great time to let me know what’s going on outside of this old shack, but no.”

“Where’s Moony?” Harry asks. 

“Out with Tonks,” Sirius grumbles. “Won’t be back until tomorrow evening.”

“Oh… Well, when he is, would you tell him that I did really well in Defence? I even got to show off my patronus, and it was huge.”

Sirius smiles. “I will, Harry, I will. I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic… We’re both very proud of you, you know.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says eventually, his throat somewhat constricted. “We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you,” Sirius says. “And Harry—please don’t give her any more reason to punish you.”

Harry smiles weakly. “I’ll do my best.”

The mirror clears, and Harry stows it in the pocket of his robes.

######  _\- x -_

_Think,_ he tells himself, gazing down at his blank History of Magic paper. _Liechtenstein, Liechtenstein… Why didn’t they go… think…_

And all of a sudden, he’s walking along a cool, dark corridor to the Department of Mysteries once again.

He hasn’t done it, he’s not good enough, he’s slipped, he can’t block them out— _why is he here? Why is he here again, why can’t he stop them? What does he_ want?

In the corridor, he breaks out into a run, footsteps heavy and soundless on the tile. The door in front of him swings open, a black abyss amongst shining ebony, admitting him into the room beyond. Again, he finds it filled with more doors. Straight across the stone floor and through the door in front of him—he knows this one, it goes into the room with the weird spots of light and the strange, mechanical clicking. But he has no time to stop and look around, he must keep going… Keep going… There’s the third door… He must get there… He must get there in time… 

His heartbeat accelerates as he throws himself through this third door, and he finds himself amongst a library—a _forest_ —of heavy wooden shelves stretching up into an ever-reaching cavern of a ceiling. Upon them glow thousands of mist-filled crystal balls of all sizes, leering ominously down at him in their inanimacy.

He hurries down the corridor between the aisles, counting them down by the numbers engraved on little bronze plates as he goes. When he reaches row ninety-seven he turns left and runs down it, runs like his life depends upon it, to the figure kneeling in the break of the next corridor.

“Take it for me, lift it down…” Harry says as he slows to a menacing creep, though his voice is cold, high and sibilant, void of any human emotion. “I cannot touch it, but you… _You_ can…”

The calm, centred form of Sirius gazes placidly up at him before cracking a smirking grin.

“You’ll have to kill me,” he taunts, and Harry feels his hand raising his wand despite his desperate wishes not to.

 _“Crucio!”_ his unsettling, reedy voice shrieks, and Sirius goes rigid and screams as he seizes.

“Undoubtedly, you shall die in the end…” Harry says. “But you will fetch it for me first, Black, and I will show you pain you have never before imagined… Just think! We have hours ahead of us, yes… And no one to hear you scream.”

Harry raises his arm again, curse on his lips, and somewhere, far away, someone yells out. Somewhere, a little less far, someone slides from a clammy desk surface and tumbles to the floor, clutching the scar on his forehead. Somewhere, though Harry cannot at first work out _where,_ he wakes up as he hits the stone with a shout in his throat and trembling limbs.

The Great Hall erupts around him.


	14. Fifth Year, IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)c

“I need to see Professor McGonagall!” Harry gasps, slowing to a halt, with each of his breaths tearing the insides of his lungs to shreds. “It’s urgent!”

“She’s not here, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey tells him with a bitter twist to her lips, vanishing the potion she’s spilt over Montague in surprise—or, possibly, anxiety. “She was transferred to St Mungo’s this morning… Four stunning spells to the chest, at her age? It’s a miracle she’s still alive!”

“She’s… gone?” Harry says, gaping. The sudden rise in volume of movement around them signifies the end of lessons. The distant rumbling of students pouring into the corridors reaches them, even in the quiet infirmary. Harry stands as still as a muggle photograph and stares at Madam Pomfrey, terror rising through him in waves.

Dumbledore in hiding, Hagrid on the run, but never Professor McGonagall… Never in his wildest dreams did Harry consider the possibility of McGonagall not, for once, being at Hogwarts when he needed her. Not McGonagall, who, though irascible and inflexible, is like a second mother to her entire house. Not ever-present McGonagall, there perhaps most especially through the worst of the worst… 

“I understand your shock, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey tells him with a strong, fierce approval in her expression. “As if any of them would have dared stun Minerva McGonagall face-to-face in broad daylight! Undeniable cowardice, that’s what it was! Despicable… If I wasn’t dreading the thought of what might happen to you all without me, I’d be resigning in protest.”

“Yes,” Harry says, though he’s unsure what kind of face he’s making now, and turns on his heel. He strides from the infirmary, directionless, into the flow of students. He lets himself be shunted along the hallways while bile rises in his throat, while his breathing hitches unnaturally and his head feels light with faintness. He stares unseeingly into the river of black robes until one sharp, focusing thought graces his mind.

_Ron and Hermione._

He sets off at a run at that, pushing thoughtlessly through the crowds and down two floors. He’s at the top of the marble staircase before he sees them rushing towards him, Ron toting both his bag and Harry’s.

“Harry!” Hermione cries. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“Where have you _been?”_ Ron demands.

“Come on, come with me,” Harry says, shoving an arm through each of theirs and guiding them quickly back down. “I’ve got to… It’s bad…”

He grabs his bag from Ron and shoves his hand inside, fumbling around until a sharp edge catches his finger.

“Got it,” he mumbles, withdrawing the mirror and hissing Sirius’ name into it as they walk. 

“Sirius!” he repeats, when his own reflection remains staring intently back at him. _“Sirius!”_

“Harry, what the hell’s going on?” Ron asks.

“He has Sirius in the Department of Mysteries,” he says quietly, breaths short and quickening. “Voldemort has him—he’s torturing him for the weapon—I saw it, Ron, I can’t—”

“Harry!” Ron says loudly, snapping him abruptly back to earth. He hauls them into an alcove and grabs Harry by the shoulders.

“Harry, mate, you need to breathe.”

Harry struggles to swallow through the drought in his mouth. He stares up at Ron’s face, sees how his mouth is set in a serious line, one he should never have to wear, and tries to get his breathing back under control.

“You’re saying Voldemort has Sirius in the Department of Mysteries?”

Harry nods.

“And he’s not answering the mirror?”

He glances down to the mirror in his hand, but all he can see is the castle stone and himself and Ron. He nods again.

“McGonagall’s gone,” he says. “Madam Pomfrey said they took her to St Mungo’s this morning.”

“Oh no,” Hermione says softly, hidden behind Ron. “That’s _terrible.”_

“There’s no one here left to tell.”

Ron studies his face for a few moments before his eyebrows jump and he shoves a hand into his robe pockets. He holds up a single silver sickle, glinting in the weak daylight.

“Of course,” Harry breathes, taking the coin when Ron holds it out and squeezing it in his palm. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the letters he needs, letting go when he feels it heat in his palm at the same time as his own in his pocket.

_Had vision, VM has S in DoM. McG in St M. — H_

“Thanks,” he says, handing the coin back to Ron.

“I still can’t believe you can do that,” Ron mutters, studying the words like they’ll show him how.

“Are you sure he’s there, Harry?” Hermione says, finally stepping around Ron and looking very worried. “It’s five in the afternoon, the Ministry must be full of people! Dumbledore said that You-Know-Who might figure out that you can—”

“I _saw_ him, Hermione!” Harry insists. “I felt it—my scar—when he was cursing him!”

 _“But how do you know they’re there?”_ she pleads. “He might be making it up to lure you! Remember when he took Ginny?”

Ron makes a noise, but Harry gapes at her. “Hermione, you don’t _understand.”_

She watches him carefully, her eyebrows drawn together and her bottom lip caught painfully between her teeth. Even Ron looks wary, but mostly resigned to what he knows Harry’s going to do.

“Sirius the only family I have left,” he says. “I can’t leave him to die.”

A second wave of heat flares against his leg. Harry scrabbles for the coin, drawing it out and twisting it between his fingers.

_Get Snape. Hang in there — F &G _

“Snape,” Harry breathes. “Snape, of course—he’s in the Order too. Come on!”

But just as he’s about to step around Ron and back into the corridor, Ginny and Luna appear before them.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Ginny asks. “We heard your voice—the coins, too.”

“Never _mind,_ Ginny,” he says, chewing the inside of his mouth. “You don’t need to get caught up in this.”

Ginny raises her eyebrows cooly. 

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” she says. “I was only wondering if I could help. No, actually, I’m _going_ to help.”

“Well you can’t,” Harry huffs.

“You’re being rather rude, Harry,” Luna points out serenely. Harry swears and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Wait, Harry,” Hermione says, “we _do_ need their help.”

Harry and Ron turn to her expectantly. She takes a breath and holds it, waiting for a number of shrieking third-years to pass.

“Listen, Harry, we need to really make sure Sirius has left Headquarters,” she says in hushed tones.

“I told you! He’s not picking up the mirror and—!”

“Harry!” she hisses. “He might have left it somewhere by accident, or he was in the bathroom or something! We have to make sure!”

“Hermione, he’s being tortured _now!”_

“I swear, Harry, if we find out he’s really not there, I’ll do whatever it takes to try to save him! But please, we need to make sure it’s not a trick!”

“How?” Harry snaps. “How do we find out?”

She takes another shaky breath. “We’ll have to use Umbridge’s fire. You said it’s the only one not being patrolled by the Ministry.” Harry realises she looks positively terrified at the thought. “We’ll need to distract her, but we need lookouts too, which is why we need Ginny and Luna!”

“We’ll do it,” Ginny says immediately.

“When you say ‘Sirius’, Harry, are you talking about Stubby Boardman?” Luna asks. No one answers, though Harry is smacked in the face with the far-away memory of flicking through September’s Quibbler on the Hogwarts Express.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay, right. If you can think of a way to do this quickly, then…”

“Right,” Hermione says, chewing her lip again and wringing her fingers. “Well, erm, one of us needs to find Umbridge and distract her—send her off somewhere else—to keep her away from the office—”

“I’ll do it,” Ron says. “I’ll tell her Peeves is smashing up the Transfiguration department or something, it’s as far away as you can get. Come to think of it, if I tell him Harry needs it I could probably get him to really do it.”

“Okay, well, we need to keep everyone else away too, or one of the Squad are going to go running to her.”

“Luna and I can stand at either end of the corridor,” Ginny says. “We’ll tell them that someone’s let off a load of Garrotting Gas—Fred and George were planning to do it before they left.”

“Okay,” Hermione agrees, nodding absently and staring into space. “Harry, you and I should be under the invisibility cloak while we check on Sirius. I can keep watch for you, but we’ll probably only get five minutes at the most.”

“That’s enough,” Harry says. He knows Sirius isn’t there. “Come on, let’s go.”

 _“Now?”_ Hermione squeaks.

“Yes, now!” Harry says. “Did you want to wait until dinner or something? This is happening _now!”_

“Oh, yes, sorry, just—oh, go and get your cloak, we’ll meet you at the end of the corridor, all right?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He flies from the niche and sprints all the way up to Gryffindor Tower, ignoring Dean and Seamus’ calls for him to join their post-exam party. He throws off his cumbersome robe, snatches the cloak from his trunk and stumbles to go, but the sight of a brightly-coloured sticker peeking out from beneath his underwear has him pausing just long enough to snatch up the bag it’s attached to, Sirius’ pen knife, and the Marauder’s Map from his nightstand. A couple of minutes later and he’s leaping the last few stairs to join the huddle of Ron, Ginny, Hermione and Luna at the end of Umbridge’s corridor. He staggers and almost turns his ankle, but Ron catches his arm and pulls him upright again.

“Here,” Harry says, rooting through the paper bag and shoving a box at Ginny. “Decoy Detonator—Fred and George gave me them at Christmas.”

“Wicked,” she says, grinning and hiding it securely in her robes. He hands the second to Hermione and keeps the third, giving each of them an Extendable Ear and pushing the Canary Creams at Ron and Luna.

“All right, let’s go,” Hermione says.

Ron strides away down the corridor, looking more imposing and impressive than Harry’s ever seen him. Ginny and Luna bob through the crowd, pushing people this way and that until they’ve cleared the area.

A huge shriek from some sort of horn splits the air in two, followed by Ginny’s false scream and a puff of greenish smoke. The corridor clears almost immediately, amidst the honking and clattering and expulsions of gas. Hermione throws the cloak around her and Harry’s shoulders. Harry takes a fortifying breath and clasps it around them, throwing up the hood to hide their faces.

“You can’t come down here!” Ginny tells anyone running the wrong direction. “Someone’s let off Garrotting Gas—no, that horn’s a different thing—dear Merlin, just _move,_ would you?”

Harry and Hermione start off along the corridor, careful to keep their feet hidden. They can barely see Luna at the other end through the horrible smelling green gas. When they get to the office door Harry slips the blade of the knife into the crack in the wood. The lock clicks, and the door swings inwards.

“I thought she might have added some better security after the second niffler,” Hermione mutters. The office is as empty and still as ever, and nothing triggers to hinder their way. The horrifyingly fluffy kittens continue to bask in the golden evening sun alighting their plates.

Harry pulls off the cloak and almost throws himself into the fire pit, fumbling for the floo powder and throwing a pinch over the grate. Emerald flames burst to life and he doesn’t hesitate to push his face into them, screwing his eyes shut and calling out, “Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

His entire head spins as he flies through the network, even as his hands and knees stay firmly planted on the castle stone. When the horrible spinning stops he splutters ash out of his face and opens his eyes to the long, cold, _empty_ kitchen of Headquarters.

“Sirius!” he shouts. _“Sirius!”_

“Harry!” comes a slightly muffled reply. It’s not Sirius. “Harry, is that you?”

Fred Weasley comes clattering in, coat flying and wand out, and runs to Harry in the fire.

“Fred?” Harry says, surprised. “What are you—?”

“We came to check the house,” Fred tells him. “I see you’ve had the same idea. Kreacher’s insistent he’s not here, and George’s checking all the rooms upstairs now—”

“Oh, it’s the Potter boy’s head in the fire…” says the crawling voice of Kreacher as he limps into view. “What has he come for, Kreacher wonders…”

“Kreacher,” Harry demands, “where is Sirius.”

“Master has gone out, Harry Potter!” Kreacher wheezes, grinning from ear to floppy ear.

“Kreacher!” Fred bellows, taking hold of his grubby loincloth. _“Where—is—he?”_

“The filthy blood traitor is threatening Kreacher, oh what my poor Mistress would think…”

 _“Kreacher!”_ Harry yells. “Has he gone to the Department of Mysteries?” 

Kreacher pauses in his muttering, tilting his head towards Harry unsettlingly, but not meeting his eyes.

“Master does not tell poor Kreacher where he is going.”

“But you know, don’t you?” Harry snaps. “You know where he is!”

A moment of quiet passes, and Fred drops the elf with a yell of frustration. Kreacher stumbles back and begins to cackle.

“Master will not come back from the Department of Mysteries!” he says gleefully. “Kreacher and Mistress are alone again!”

“You—!” Harry shouts, but before he can even think of a single curse or insult, a sharp, grasping pain at the top of his head shocks him. “Fred!” he gasps, choking on ash and unable to keep himself from being dragged, bodily from the fire. 

“Harry!” The last thing Harry sees is Fred’s wide-eyed horror as he dives for the hearth before Harry’s rudely brought back into the too-bright office, staring up into Umbridge’s terrible, trembling, wrinkled jowls. Her hand in his hair drags him to his feet until he’s bent so far back he thinks she might slit his throat.

“You think,” she whispers, “that after two nifflers I was going to unknowingly let one more foul, scavenging little creature into my office? There are stealth censoring charms all around you, you stupid boy! Take his wand.”

A hand belonging to someone he cannot see gropes at the seam of his school trousers, retrieving his wand from its pocket.

“Hers too,” Umbridge says, and the scuffle over by the door tells Harry that Hermione must have had her wand taken too. The fist in his hair tightens even more, yanking him so he stumbles back.

“I want to know why you’re in my office, Potter.” When Harry doesn’t reply, she snarls. “You had your head in my fire—with whom have you been communicating?”

“No one,” Harry says petulantly, unsurprised when he feels several hairs pulled from his scalp.

“Liar!” she roars, throwing him forwards. He slams into the desk, folding over it and displacing any number of objects on it. Something breaks against the floor. Harry can now see Hermione pushed up against the wall, chest to chest with Millicent Bullstrode and glaring. Malfoy is leaning against the windowsill, smirking and watching him intently as he tosses Harry’s wand into the air one-handed and catches it, over and over again. The cat plates lining the walls are chorusing tiny, irritating mews.

Winded, Harry pushes himself upright, leaning his hands on the desk as he tries to subtly scan for anything to protect himself with. Too late, he is, when Umbridge yanks him into a chair and sends it teetering backwards, smugly tying his wrists to the armrests with a sharp, _“Incarcerous!”_

A small scuffle outside the door draws his attention. Harry cranes his neck to his right to see several members of the Inquisitorial Squad enter, each gripping tightly to the arms of Ron, Ginny, Luna, and, most bafflingly, _Neville._ Poor Neville is red in the face above Vincent Crabbe’s chokehold, and looks in very real danger of passing out from asphyxiation. All four of them have been gagged with the same silk blindfolds Flitwick had taught them to conjure just last year.

“Got ’em all, Professor,” Cassius Warrington says, shunting Ron, who looks murderous, inside by the arm. “That one,” he continues, jabbing a finger at Neville, “tried to stop us taking _her,”_ he moves the finger to Ginny, who is thrashing wildly in the grip of a large Slytherin girl, “so I brought him too.”

“Good, good,” Umbridge says, eyeing Ginny with an insane glint of glee. “It looks like Hogwarts is soon to be a Weasley-free area, doesn’t it?”

Harry throws himself forward on his feet, trying to crouch and spin the chair to take out her knees.

“Oh, dear, _dear,_ Mr Potter,” Umbridge simpers, forcing him back into place with her wand and binding his ankles to the chair legs. “Quite the temper we have… Did I hit a nerve?”

“The only one who’s going to be hit here is you,” he spits, fury simmering at the base of his throat. His head snaps to the side as her palm strikes his cheek solidly, the many garish rings on her stubby fingers threatening to permanently bruise him.

“So, Potter, you stationed lookouts around my office and sent this buffoon,” she inclines her head towards Ron, and Harry almost tries the chair thing again, “to tell me the poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration department when I knew, perfectly well, at that moment, that he was busy smearing ink on all of the telescope eyepieces in the Astronomy Tower, as Mr Filch had just informed me of it. It seems to me that it was very important you talk to _someone_ through my fire—was it Albus Dumbledore? Or that half-breed, Hagrid? Because I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I heard she’s too ill to talk to anyone.”

“You tried to _kill her!”_ Harry seethes, even as some of the Inquisitorial Squad are laughing meanly beside him. “And it’s none of your business who I talk to!”

“Very well, Mr Potter!” she says in her most dangerously sweet tone. “I’ve offered you many chances to come clean and you have taken none of them. You leave me no choice but force!” She turns to Malfoy. “Draco, fetch Professor Snape for me, will you?”

Harry’s gaze snaps to Malfoy as he’s tucking Harry’s wand into the breast pocket of his robes. Malfoy’s brow twitches curiously, and Harry looks down, nodding as subtly as he can manage. Malfoy sweeps from the room without a word.

 _Snape,_ Harry thinks, cursing himself. They should have gone to Snape first.

In the quiet that follows, Harry looks around at his friends. Ron is fighting Warrington, lip bloody, while Ginny has not yet let up in her thrashing attempts to stamp on her sixth-year captor’s foot. Hermione is still trying to throw Bulstrode off, but Luna, completely lax, is gazing through the window.

“Missing a certain George Weasley are you, Cassius?” Harry says placidly, tilting his head towards Warrington. He grins smugly when Warrington tenses and jerks as if to lunge for him, jaw working.

“You—!” he begins, but Ron takes the opportunity to elbow him, hard, in the stomach.

“Quiet, Potter,” Umbridge snaps. Harry rolls his head back over to look at her, keeping his face clear of all but a mild disinterest.

Footsteps near the door of the office, and within moments they’re rejoined by Malfoy, trailing Snape. Malfoy returns to his position on the window ledge, flicking Harry’s wand tauntingly.

“You sent for me, Headmistress?” Snape says, surveying the scene with no more than a slight twitch of his eyelashes.

“Professor Snape!” Umbridge says, smiling widely. “Have you brought the Veritaserum?”

“I’m afraid you’ve used up all my stores while interrogating students,” Snape drawls. “The last of it on Mr Potter.” 

A moment of silence rings around the room. The Slytherins shuffle and look at each other uncomfortably. 

“Can you not brew me some more?” Umbridge demands.

“Certainly,” Snape says. “It takes one full moon cycle to mature, so I will have it ready for you in about a month.”

“A month?” Umbridge squawks. “But I need it now!”

“Unless you wish to poison him,” Snape continues, “and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy if you did… I cannot help you.” He turns to survey his Slytherins. 

“And Crabbe,” he says, “loosen your hold on Mr Longbottom… If he suffocates it will be a lot of tedious paperwork, and I’m afraid I shall have to mention it on your future references.”

When Umbridge says no more—whether speechless from anger or her own idiocy, Harry could not tell you—Snape inclines his head and turns to leave, cape swooping around him.

“He’s got Padfoot!” Harry blurts, breathing unsteadily in his rush to get the words out clearly. Snape pauses at the door. “He’s got Padfoot in the place where it’s hidden.”

“Padfoot?” Umbridge asks quickly, recovering herself. “What is Padfoot? We—What is he talking about, Snape?”

Snape turns, slowly, and meets Harry’s intent, determined gaze. 

“No idea,” he says after a moment, looking at Umbridge with slightly widened, unamusedly exasperated eyes. He glances back to Harry before he leaves, and Harry hopes beyond hope that he gets the message. Or that Fred and George get it to someone else. Or anything, really, because he is _running out of time._

“Very well,” Umbridge says, voice unnervingly flat. “You give me no choice, Potter.”

She turns to her desk, placing both hands upon its surface.

“One would think a couple of dementors might get the message across—”

 _“You_ sent those dementors!” Harry bellows, straining against his bindings. _“You_ were the one trying to kill me and Dudley!”

Umbridge titters, but otherwise ignores him, tracing her fingers over her desk surface.

“As this is an issue of _Ministry_ security, you leave me with… No alternative. Yes… Of course, the cruciatus curse ought to loosen your tongue.”

“That’s illegal!” Hermione snaps, pushing fully against Bulstrode. Ron struggles with renewed effort and a loud, muffled noise, and Neville shouts behind his gag with the breath he’s just regained.

“What Cornelius… _doesn’t_ know…” Umbridge says, taking a framed photograph on her desk and placing it face down on its lacy dolly, “…won’t hurt him.” 

_“No!”_

The mewling of the cats around them seems to crescendo as Umbridge steps towards Harry, wand aloft. He leans back in his chair, tipping it as far as he can without falling. He’s vaguely aware of Luna’s sudden attempt at breaking free, Ginny’s success in landing a hit somewhere important, and Neville quite possibly getting Crabbe in the balls with his heel, but he’s too busy staring down the end of Umbridge’s wand and already preparing to grit his teeth to appreciate them.

 _“Stop this at once!”_ Hermione demands suddenly. Her voice is harsh with such incredible authority that Umbridge does, indeed, falter.

“Excuse me?” she says faintly.

“Tell her Harry!” Hermione says.

“Er-my-nee, _no!”_ Ron manages through the gag.

“Tell me what?” Umbridge asks tremulously, wand still hovering beneath Harry’s nose.

Hermione, breathing heavily, flicks her gaze from side to side as if reading an invisible, floating text. She seems to settle on something when she closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath, and looks Bulstrode in what Harry can only assume is dead in the eye.

“Unhand me,” she says firmly. Bulstrode steps back at once, releasing Hermione, whose lips twitch with satisfaction.

Everyone freezes. 

Umbridge’s wand shivers where it’s pointed at Harry. Ginny goes completely still for the first time in ten minutes, staring at Hermione like she’s never seen her before. Malfoy’s eyes have gone wide; Harry’s wand clatters against the stone as his grip on it slackens. Both Neville and Ron are watching her with a rather disturbingly appraising look. Luna is smiling as she hugs Goyle’s arm.

“Miss Bulstrode?” Umbridge implores. Bulstrode jerks and blinks and immediately seizes Hermione’s arm, but it’s too late—far, _far_ too late. A familiar, spine-chilling glint of superiority has settled in Hermione’s eyes, though Umbridge looks to have been taken in by the way she’s making herself look vulnerable.

“Well?” Umbridge prompts. “What is it, you silly girl?”

“We-we were trying to talk to Dumbledore,” Hermione says, voice timid and eyes wide despite the utter lack of her usual tell-tale mannerisms. Somehow, Harry still wants to believe she’s scared, and he wonders what the hell she’s up to.

“Dumbledore?” Umbridge presses eagerly. “So you _do_ know where he is?”

“W-Well no, of course not,” Hermione continues, quivering and shying away, “but we tried all the places we could think of—including the Hog’s Head!”

“Idiot girl!” Umbridge shrieks. Her hand twitches as if to slap her too, but she seems to decide against it. “Dumbledore won’t be sitting in a pub when the whole Ministry’s looking for him!”

“But we need to tell him something important!”

“What? What was it? It was too important to wait, yes?”

“Yes,” Hermione says with a loud, convincing false sob. “We wanted to tell him… We need to tell him that it’s—it’s ready!”

Umbridge pulls Bulstrode out of the way so she can grab Hermione herself. “What is? What’s ready?”

“The weapon!” Hermione squeaks. Fear and desperation permeate the room with an intensity Harry’s never felt before. He frowns in confusion, because she still… She doesn’t _look_ scared. Not in the way Harry knows she should.

“A weapon?” Umbridge demands at once. “A weapon to use against the Ministry? On Dumbledore’s orders?”

Hermione nods frantically. “But—But now we c-can’t find him to t-tell him!”

Umbridge’s teeth gleam between her lips as she grins. Her fingers dig into Hermione’s shoulder. “What kind of weapon?”

“We don’t know!” Hermione wails. “We don’t—we don’t understand it! We just d-did as Professor Dumbledore said!”

“Excellent,” Umbridge says, straightening up at once. “Show me.”

“I’m not showing _them,”_ Hermione says harshly, now scowling at the Slytherins. It’s as if someone has flicked a switch on the waterworks. Harry feels like he’s going to suffer whiplash if she jumps between moods any faster.

“It is not for you to set conditions,” Umbridge snaps.

“You’ll leave them behind!” Hermione says. “Or actually, no! Bring them! In fact, I’d love the whole school to see! Then they’d know just how to work it themselves, and they could—they could sort you right out!”

Umbridge draws herself up to her full, insignificant height.

“Very well, we shall go alone. Lead on, Miss Granger… And we’ll take Potter with us, shall we?”

“But Professor!” Malfoy cuts in, though he’s too slow to hide the curious, eager expression he’d adopted at Hermione’s outburst. “Don’t you think some of us should accompany—”

Umbridge rounds on him in a huff. “I am a fully qualified Ministry official, Mr Malfoy, and much more mature than any of _you!_ Do you really think I cannot handle two wandless teenagers myself?”

Malfoy snaps his mouth shut, tipping his head back so he’s looking down his nose. “My apologies, Professor. I did not mean to cast aspersions on your… _Capabilities.”_

“Good,” she says. “Now keep _these,”_ she gestures around at Ron, Ginny, Luna and Neville, “from escaping.”

Malfoy snaps his heels together and inclines his head in a very Snape-like manner. Harry wonders if he’s been taking lessons, but as soon as the thought surfaces, he scoffs at his own foolishness; Malfoy’s a pureblood ponce—of _course_ he’s taken lessons.

As Umbridge cuts her wand in a sharp slash to undo Harry’s bindings, Harry sees Hermione slip her wand out of Bulstrode’s grip and hide it in the waistband of her school skirt, under her shirt and jumper. He glances to each of his gagged, restrained friends, where Ron nods to him, and Harry can practically feel the mischief brewing in Ginny. 

“Well?” Umbridge says, holding her wand in front of her and nudging them both towards the door. “You two can walk ahead and lead me there, yes?”

“Of course,” Hermione says. Harry can hear the sneer in her voice. 

He might not know what’s just transpired, but he thinks he’s quite right to maintain a healthy, respectful fear of his best friend.

######  _\- x -_

Hermione shivers in the cool of the evening air. She’d forgone retrieving her robe (where Harry assumes it had been pulled off in her struggle) to steal back her wand, and now he feels terrible for leaving his own in the dorm where she can’t use it. Regardless, she strides purposefully across the Hogwarts lawns, Harry half a pace behind her and Umbridge hurrying to keep up. He doesn’t quite know what she’s planning, even though it seemed Ron did, but he’s more than happy to along with it.

“It’s hidden in Hagrid’s hut, isn’t it?” Umbridge pries, irritatingly excited. Hermione snorts loudly.

“Of course not,” she says. “Hagrid might have set it off, and anyway, there’d be no space.”

“Of course, yes,” Umbridge laughs, “he would have done, wouldn’t he? The great half-breed oaf.”

Hermione scoffs, but Harry feels an incredible urge to whip right around and seize Umbridge by the throat. He settles for snarling at her over his shoulder.

His scar throbs and pangs with an arching, aching pain, but it has not yet seared as white-hot as he knows it to when Voldemort uses the killing curse. They’re okay… For now.

“Well then,” Umbridge says, unable to mask her slight uncertainty now she seems to have employed the use of her few remaining brain cells, “where is it?”

“In the forest, of course,” Hermione says, smirking where only Harry can see. “Professor Dumbledore had to keep it somewhere students wouldn’t be able to find it accidentally.”

“Yes, yes, of course…” Umbridge twitters. “Now, you two stay in front of me there and lead the way.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise in utter lack of surprise.

“Can we have your wand, then, if you’re making us go first?” he asks flatly.

“I don’t think so, Mr Potter,” Umbridge replies, still saccharine. “I’m afraid the Ministry places a rather higher value on my life than yours.”

Harry almost laughs as he looks again over his shoulder and gives her a very obvious once over. “Of course, _Professor.”_

She ignores him. “Is it far?”

“It’s well hidden,” Hermione replies. “Quite far past the trees…”

Harry gives her an uncertain look. They’re definitely not taking their usual path to Grawp—in fact, Harry’s fairly certain this is the way he and Ron had taken that had landed them right in the middle of Aragog’s lair. Hermione marches on, making quite an unreasonable amount of noise as she goes.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

She glances at him briefly, wide-eyed and nervous. “Improvising!” 

“Are you all right?” 

“Fine, just a bit tired after all that magic I used.”

Harry blinks and shakes his head. He really ought to be used to not knowing what she’s talking about by now.

“Are you sure this is the way?” he asks, directed so that Umbridge can hear.

“Oh, yes!” Hermione replies loudly. “Why, have you forgotten?”

He winces. “Keep it down, will you?” 

“I want us to be heard,” she whispers back. They come across a long tyre skid mark in the rocky soil; Hermione frowns at it a moment before grinning sharply.

“Okay, only we passed Grawp a while ago,” Harry mutters, ignoring Umbridge firmly when she trips over a stray sapling, “and I’m fairly sure he wasn’t home… Also, I thought it might be a good idea to mention we’re walking right towards…” 

Harry makes the mistake of looking up into the canopy. Huge, gauzy, shuddering cobwebs drape themselves between the trees. An unknowable number of dark shadows scuttle across them and begin to lower themselves from thirty feet up, flitting in and out of view as the sunset struggles to penetrate the darkness.

“…Aragog,” he finishes, voice high and thin. 

“Just a little farther!” Hermione calls shrilly. Harry can see her hand curled beneath her shirt, gripping her wand. Umbridge is still stumbling and crashing along behind them. The hems of her rich pink robes are torn and dirty and her hair seems to be gaining sentience with every bob of her over-large head. 

They stagger towards the edge of a small byplace up ahead, knotted with shoddy growth and settled between the tangled ends of towering buttress roots. Harry has the beginnings of a painful stitch in his side from their ruthless pace, wincing as it stabs through his abdomen with every badly landed step. If he’s still on top form for quidditch—as seeker, no less—he can’t imagine Hermione’s faring well at all.

“AARGH!” Umbridge screams. 

Harry and Hermione almost unbalance themselves with the speed at which they turn to look. She’s with her back to them (unwise, even for her) and brandishing her wand at the… Ah. 

At the hundreds of creeping acromantula making their approach. 

Harry thinks he probably should have been listening for them to make their landing—now he knows they’re there, the thudding of thousands of huge, hairy legs landing amongst forest litter is unmissable, and definitely high on his list of the many sounds he’d hoped to never have to hear again.

Hermione chokes on a her breath beside him. He grabs her arm and hauls her backwards, into the clearing, uncaring that Umbridge flounders after them.

An arrow slices the air above Harry’s head and lands in the nearest tree. He turns around again, scared but unsurprised to be greeted by the galloping of dozens upon dozens of hooves and nocked arrows in every bow. Centaurs are emerging from every side, ringing the small clearing and menacing at its intruders. Umbridge shrieks again and grabs hold of Harry’s sleeve, trying to pull him in front of herself like a shield. He clicks his tongue and rips himself from her grip, standing tensely as far from her right hand as he dares while Hermione does the same to her left. He can feel the eyes of the acromantula burning through the clothes on his back.

“Who are you?” says a deep voice. Harry looks to his left, finding the chestnut-coated centaur called Magorian whom he and Hermione had met last time they’d entered the forest with Hagrid. Umbridge, whimpering, raises her wand. Harry spares a glance down at Hermione and sees her very smartly presenting both unarmed, open palms at her sides.

Magorian scowls. “I asked you who you are, human.”

“I am Dolores Jane Umbridge!” Umbridge shrills. “Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic and Headmistress and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts! You have no business being here, centaur—this is a Ministry matter!”

Many of the surrounding centaurs huff and paw the ground, shifting closer and aiming their arrows straight at each of their chests.

“You are from the Ministry,” Magorian says. Something tells Harry he doesn’t consider that to be a good thing.

“Lower your weapons!” Umbridge demands. “I warn you! As creatures of near-human intelligence—!”

Bane, a sleek, angry, black-flanked centaur, looses his arrow. Harry gasps and ducks, choking on the shock and the leap of his heart into his throat. The arrow shatters against an invisible, rippling shield. Bane has another nocked and aimed before any of them can even blink.

“How _dare_ you!” Umbridge shrieks, wand arm steadying in her anger.

“That is what _we_ should be asking,” Magorian growls. “‘Near-human intelligence’; we consider that a great insult, _human…_ Our intelligence far outstrips yours, thank the stars.”

“You—you filthy _half-breeds!”_ Umbridge cries.

“Don’t call them that!” Hermione snaps furiously. A number of centaurs roar with outrage, including Bane, and she and Harry flinch backwards.

“What are you doing in our forest?” demands the stony grey centaur they’d met with Hagrid. “Why do you dare step foot in here?”

 _“Your_ forest?” Umbridge seems to find it pertinent to ask. “I would remind you that this is Ministry-owned land, and that you live here only because we allow—”

A second arrow flies so close to her that it snags in her limping, mousey hair and pulls hard. She screams and howls, throwing her hands over her head.

“Whose forest is it now, human?” Bane booms.

“Filthy half-breeds!” she screams. “Beasts! Scum!”

 _“SILENCE!”_ Hermione bellows. Umbridge goes quiet at once, and even Harry snaps his mouth shut. The centaurs shuffle around, now peering curiously at Hermione.

“You stupid cow!” she continues. “Can’t you see your place? I’ll tie you up myself and leave you here, if you carry on with that!”

“You have a voice, girl…” Magorian observes. Harry assumes it is not as redundant an observation as it sounds, but that’s not to say he knows what it means. “Know that we will not hesitate to retaliate if you attempt the same with us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hermione says shakily. Her knees are trembling.

Umbridge, unfortunately, recovers herself to raise her wand once more.

 _“Incarcerous!”_ she cries, and a long, thick rope flies out towards Magorian, looping around his neck and torso and dragging him to the ground, choking.

“No!” Hermione screams, dropping to her knees. _“NO! Let him GO!”_

“RELEASE HIM,” Bane commands, just as several more of his brethren let their arrows fly towards them. Hermione throws herself at Harry and flings her wand up to shield them.

“I—will—have— _order!”_ Umbride insists, repelling the rain of arrows by the dozen. 

No sooner than she’s said it is she screaming again, buffeted towards the ranks of angry centaurs by ginormous, scuttling hairy bodies. Hermione screams too, pulling Harry into her chest and curling around him. He can see between her arms that the acromantula are fleeing past them, feel the shuddering of the forest floor as they run and clamber into their trees—but no, there’s something else… A quaking booming growing closer and closer, rhythmically, swaying trees and unsettling the centaurs, who snarl and raise their bows away from Umbridge. It’s almost as if… 

“NOO!” Umbridge screams, once again, as she is lifted clean off the floor.

“Grawp!” Hermione shrieks. Harry scrambles from her hold and pulls her with him across the dusty floor. He must accidentally stray too close to someone for comfort, because he gets a sharp, winding hoof to the shoulder knocking him forwards in a lurch between his own legs.

“Sorry,” he gasps, crawling sideways instead.

Magorian frees himself of the rope, now that Umbridge has broken her concentration, and the centaurs charge Grawp’s trunk-like legs with a headache-inducing furore.

“No, please!” Hermione cries breathlessly as the centaurs fire upon Hagrid’s brother. “Leave him, it’s not his fault! No, he doesn’t understand!”

“DO SOMETHING, POTTER!” Umbridge screams. “TELL THEM I MEAN NO HARM!”

“I’m sorry, Professor!” Harry yells back, grimacing grimly. “But I must not tell lies!”

Pebble-sized droplets of blood shower them from above. Grawp yells and drops Umbridge from where he was examining her flailing form at his own eye level. He rubs at his face, snapping the arrow shafts clean off but forcing the metal heads in deeper. 

The centaurs cheer in exaltation as Umbridge falls right into their hands. Harry half-hoped Grawp would step on her, but it’s just as satisfying when they hold her above their heads and rear up in a roiling dance to the tune of her screams. Harry pulls Hermione to her feet and half carries her back to the relative safety of the trees. The centaurs turn and gallop past them, hoisting Umbridge by her arms and letting her drag across the floor wherever she isn’t too short to reach it.

“What are you doing? _Put me down!_ I am Senior Undersecretary—AAGH!”

“Come on,” Harry mutters. “We need to get out of here.”

He turns around, and with all the commotion, he seems to have forgotten the third, more pressing threat. The acromantula have begun advancing once again, emboldened by Grawp’s distraction and shouts of pain. One of the only remaining centaurs slows to sneer at them.

“You may walk free this night, foals, but we do not help _humans,”_ she says. “We are not all like that traitor Firenze.”

She races off with the last of her people and Harry and Hermione are left alone, cowering before a platoon of eight-legged killing machines. Grawp roars again and they flinch, but are intent on their newest prize. Harry snatches Hermione’s wand from her lax fingers.

 _“Arania exume!”_ he yells, and conjures a blast strong enough to knock several of them back into their friends. It’s a useless attempt, he discovers, when more just scuttle in to take their place.

A screech sounds from above, and Harry glances up to see a dark shadow soar over them. _Wonderful,_ he thinks, _more hungry customers._

He’s so absorbed in blasting away the waves upon waves of taunting spiders—because that’s what they’re doing; if they’d wanted them dead they’d have been dead five minutes ago—that he almost misses it. It’s Hermione who shoves him out of the way of a bright flash of yellow light, followed closely by a smashed up, revving, sentient blue Ford Anglia.

“Brilliant!” he yells hoarsely, choking on a laugh. “Get in, get in!”

Hermione doesn’t hesitate in throwing herself into the back of the car as Harry takes the front passenger side, and the car takes off at once.

“You came for us,” Harry pants fondly, patting the dashboard as best he can while blasting spiders and being thrown over ridiculously rough terrain. Hermione yelps every time they shudder and jolt and Harry worries she’s broken something (or worse), but he can’t tell by looking, not for all of Grawp’s blood they’ve been soaked in.

“Are you all right?” he shouts, wrenching a smaller spider out of his window and turning to force another through the shattered rear windscreen.

“Fine!” she replies. “Just— _fuck!”_ (Harry accidentally cuts the spider leering over her in half in his panic) “Just _terrified!”_

“You’d be mad not to be!” he says, and nearly breaks down in tears of relief when he realises they’re nearing the Hogwarts treeline.

The spiders, _blessedly,_ begin to fall back. Harry stands and forces his shoulders through the tight squeeze of the new, unintentional sunroof to fire a few more spells to keep them off their tail.

He collapses back into his seat when he loses sight of the last few over a fallen trunk, and watches the lawns come back into view as the car continues to trundle along, bursting out into the night at the lakeside far, far from the view of the school.

The ride comes to such an abrupt halt that Harry almost goes flying straight through the empty windscreen. The doors spring open, like they have done twice before, and they’re ejected forcibly onto the shoreline.

“Oof!”

Harry grunts as he lands face-down in the dirt and gravel, feeling it scrape across his face and stomach. Hermione squeaks by his side as she lands and skids forward. He forces himself onto his back in time to watch the car slam its doors shut and bumble happily back between the trees, aging headlights flaring against tall grass and moss and glowing little eyes. He lets his head fall back to earth with a thud.

“Fuck,” Hermione whispers again, heaving.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, equally as spent. He feels warm fingers nudge the ends of his own and he reaches for them, tangling their hands together as they lie there, bloodied and spread-eagle on the banks of the Black Lake, staring up at the stars and trying desperately to catch their breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> always remember to wear your seatbelts, kids


	15. Fifth Year, X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is lads, the moment we've all been waiting for. I had great fun making up sets and chases and all sorts >:)  
> "RIP Albus Severus Potter and his siblings" - a friend on the topic of the painful thestral ride

“I still have to get to London,” Harry grumbles as they hike their way around the forest edge.

Hermione frowns. “You were in the fire a while, Harry. Was anyone there?”

“Fred, actually,” he tells her, kicking at rocks in the ground. “Said he and George were looking for Sirius, but then Kreacher came along. We shouted at him until he admitted to knowing where Sirius is.”

“And he’s in the Department of Mysteries?”

 _“Yes,_ Hermione! How many times?”

“So, any ideas on how we’re actually going to get there?” says Ron’s voice in front of them. Harry looks up and grins. 

Ron, still with blood smeared down his face and neck, holds Harry’s wand and invisibility cloak out to him. Harry takes them reverently and clutches them to his chest. Beside Ron are a battered Neville, Luna and Ginny, who’s toting a bound and struggling—

“Malfoy?” Hermione snaps. “What are you doing with _him?”_

“He left just after you did,” Neville says. “Flounced out all showily, but followed us after we made our escape.”

“He overheard us talking, so we tied him up and brought him out here with us,” Luna says pleasantly. “Not that he’d need it… He’s got rather a hero complex himself.”

Harry blinks. “Right,” he says, “and how was it that you made this escape?”

“Puking pastilles!” Ginny exclaims. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“Said I was hungry and had some sweets in my pocket,” Ron says, grinning proudly. “Course, they told me to bugger off and ate the lot themselves—it really was funny once they got to those Canary Creams.”

“That was clever, Ron!” Hermione says.

“Has been known to happen,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “But that wasn’t half as bloody impressive as you, ’Mione!”

“Bloody hell,” Neville mutters, “I really had no idea you could do that.”

Hermione flusters. “To be honest, neither did I. I don’t really know what I did… I just knew that I could.”

“You used your _Voice,_ Granger,” Malfoy drawls. 

“Well _obviously,_ Malfoy,” Harry snaps. “She hasn’t exactly gone mute.”

Malfoy snorts and rolls his eyes. “Not her voice, Potter, her Voice. The Voice of Coercion.”

“My… What?”

“The Voice of Coercion,” Luna repeats. “It’s a trait said to be passed down to a select few among the Ravenclaw bloodline… It’s very powerful, and quite dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“There was a wizard, nearly seven centuries ago, who persuaded an entire army to impale themselves with their swords,” Neville says. “It’s only been seen once or twice since… Most people think it’s a myth.”

“Most everyone else thinks anyone who can use it should have their tongue removed,” Ginny says, watching Hermione with an intensity Harry cannot gauge.

“Oh, come off it,” Malfoy scoffs. “Granger’s not got it in her to make even You-Know-Who fall on his sword. No one need know if we don’t go around telling them.”

“Are you willing to bet on that, Malfoy?” Hermione says, suddenly fired up again. “And what’s in it for you if you keep it a secret? I’d have thought you’d be falling over yourself at the opportunity.”

Malfoy twists in his ropes and sneers. “In case you haven’t _noticed,_ any of you, there’s a Dark Lord at large that the Ministry refuses to acknowledge, and I’d rather not be stuck on the side that wants me to tattoo myself with some disgusting lunatic’s magic and torture muggles for fun!”

“And here we thought you’d already taken it up as one of your extracurriculars,” Ron snaps. “Alongside Ministry bootlicking, of course.”

“Why do you think I let Nott and the Greengrasses sign onto your silly little club, Potter?” Malfoy spits, ignoring the rest of them now. “Why d’you think I’d bother giving you and your little band of misfits time to get away, hm? Or vouch for you, up there, in front of the _Minister himself,_ when I knew perfectly well _exactly_ what you’d all been up to?”

Harry raises his brows behind his glasses. “So we’re just supposed to take your word for it that you’ve switched sides?”

Malfoy cracks a derisive laugh. “I suppose there’s not much else you could do, short of an interrogation. You do remember trying to beat me up, don’t you? Why do you think I would help you after _that?_ Is it not enough to believe that I just want to live?”

“Not when you’re a bloody racist snake with Death Eaters for parents,” Ron snarls.

“My mother has _nothing_ to do with those—”

“We don’t have time for this conversation,” Harry says. He presses his hand to his scar, using the chill of his fingers to soothe it. Beside him, Hermione shifts.

 _“Tell us the truth,”_ she commands. Everyone sways towards her, minutely, like she’s influencing gravity itself.

Malfoy raises his head and looks her directly in the eye. “I promised my mother never to fall into the same trap as my father did. I’m here because I need to be, and because I know you can use me.”

Hermione turns to Harry and inclines her head. 

“There you go. Was there anything else you needed?”

He swallows. “Er, no, I don’t think so. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“So, what now?” Ginny asks impatiently, shoving Malfoy forwards and letting go of his robes. “We’re not bringing him with us, are we?”

“Well we can’t leave him _here!”_ Ron protests, looking torn. “He knows what’s happening! Merlin knows who he’ll tell, and we could do with some backup.”

“But he could just be coming along to hand us over to Voldemort himself!”

“Hermione told him to tell the truth—”

“Oh, and you’ll believe him as easily as that?”

“Well I don’t see a reason not to!”

“I’m not questioning Hermione—”

“That’s what it sounds like—”

“Merlin and Morgana both,” Malfoy mutters. “Are they like this all the time?”  
“They’re siblings,” Hermione mutters harshly back. “I suspect this is how it’s supposed to be.”

_“We can hear you!”_

“Look,” Harry sighs again, still struggling to come to terms with this whole rug-from-under-feet situation. “We really, really, do not have time for this. I’m going to London and you lot are staying here, you hear me?”

“Oh dear,” Malfoy says, and Ron and Ginny erupt into noise all over again.

“You’re a complete _moron,_ Harry Potter, if you think you can just leave us here after all this—”

“—what the hell d’you think you’re going to accomplish on your own? You’ll need us there for sure when you—”

“—and if you thought for a moment we’d take it lying down you can think yourself lucky I won’t hex your arse to high heaven—”

“—of course we’re coming with you, we’ve been through everything else already, haven’t we? We’re not abandoning you with the job half done—”

“ALL RIGHT!” Harry bellows. They quiet, but they don’t look happy about it. “Please, just stop arguing.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” Luna smiles, “all challenges are easier with friends.”

“Dumbledore’s Army was about doing something real, to stand up and fight You-Know-Who,” Neville says. “Or was that all just words to you?”

“No, Nev, of course not,” Harry says. “I just… I don’t want…”

“Harry,” Hermione says, firmly and without a trace of magic. “We _are_ coming with you.”

“Maybe you don’t have to do this all by yourself, mate,” Ron adds pointedly.

Five— _six_ determined faces stare unwaveringly up at him, daring him to argue further. Harry would, he really would; he’d conjure chairs and tie them to them if he had the energy, or if he wasn’t terrified of what they’d do to him when they next found him.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “Fine, okay? But you’re to get out of there at the first sign of danger.”

“You’re going after You-Know-Who,” Malfoy states blandly. “If that isn’t ‘danger’ then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“…He has a point,” Ron admits, making an expression so sour it makes Harry think he’s in physical pain.

“Thank you, Weasley,” Malfoy allows, looking equally disturbed.

Harry throws his hands into the air. 

“Fuck it,” he says. “Fuck it, we’re all going! Malfoy’s coming. _Malfoy’s_ on our side. I can’t actually—I can’t—I _cannot_ deal with this right now. Has _anyone_ any ideas of how to travel several hundred miles in one night?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Luna says, and everyone turns to stare at her. She gazes happily up at them. 

“We fly, of course.”

######  _\- x -_

Harry clings to the knot of spine at the base of his thestral’s neck. He keeps his head ducked as they climb through the air and burst magnificently from the canopy, once again thrown into shadows under the darkening night sky. Behind him he can hear the beating of a dozen pairs of wings, and he looks over his shoulder to watch Luna sprawled contently across her steed’s back as they glide and swoop.

“I don’t like this,” Hermione is muttering somewhere to their right. “I really don’t like this.”

“It’s all right,” Ron shouts over to her. “At least we can feel where they are!”

“Oh yes, very comforting!” Malfoy snipes. “We’re only staring straight into a thousand foot drop!”

Malfoy. Jesus Christ.

“Shut it, will you? I’m not listening to you lot bicker for two hours!” Ginny says. 

Harry glances over at Neville, who smiles tiredly and shrugs despite his obvious unease. He doesn’t think he’s known a longer day than this.

######  _\- x -_

His stomach drops, suddenly, and he realises that his thestral’s head has dipped and is rushing towards the growing clusters of lights below. He grips its neck for dear life, feeling anxiety and dread pool in his chest while the tall, slightly grimy buildings reach up to greet them, and braces for impact as they hurtle towards the ground at an alarming rate. 

Harry needn’t have worried, it becomes apparent, when its hooves grace the pavement as quietly and as lightly as a shadow. He releases a long, painful breath and slides to the ground, staggering under his own weight. His thighs and arms ache and his groin may never be the same again—who knew horses’ spines could be so damaging? Ron lands next, falling straight onto his arse and yelling out.

“Never again,” he says, scrambling to his feet and accidentally walking straight into his thestral’s rump in his haste to get away. “Never, _ever_ again, that was too much—”

Hermione and Ginny come to a stop either side of him, dismounting much more smoothly than Ron but with matching dazed, ill perplexions and trembling knees. Neville comes stumbling over, shaking and looking grateful to be back on the ground. Luna drops smoothly to her feet, still smiling, but Malfoy suffers the same fate as Ron.

“Merlin’s bloody balls—” he gasps, hitting the concrete at an awkward angle and falling off the curb. “That was nothing like civilised.”

Ron snorts. “Malfoy in a drain; a sight I thought I’d never see.”

“Don’t get used to it, Weasley.”

“Shouldn’t you disguise yourself, Draco?” Luna says. “After all, someone might recognise you like that.”

Malfoy pushes himself to his feet and grimaces down at his robes. “Any ideas, Lovegood, or should I just glamour myself?”

“You can do that?” Ginny asks.

“Sure, if you can find me a mirror.”

“All right, but can we get out of the open, please?” Harry says anxiously. He tugs on Neville and Hermione’s sleeves until they follow him behind the overflowing skip a few paces from the vandalised telephone box. Each of their faces are bleached and yellowed by the crummy sodium street lamps overhead as they watch Malfoy take Harry’s reluctantly offered mirror and twirl his wand about his face.

“It might not last, depending on what happens in there,” he says, spelling his nose stubbier and his hair black, “but it should do if anyone comes too close.”

He glances down again at his uniform colours and sighs, flicking his wand and turning them Luna’s Ravenclaw blue and bronze.

“Where do we go from here, Harry?” Luna asks. Harry takes his mirror out of Malfoy’s hand and tucks it away, glancing down the street to make sure they’re still alone. 

“You see that phone box?”

“Oh, that red one with the drawings on?”

“They don’t usually have those, but yeah. We’re going through there.”

“We are not _all_ going through that thing,” Malfoy sniffs.

“Have you any better ideas?” Harry demands. “It’s open and I know the code—Ron’s dad told me that earlier.”

“We’re not all going to fit,” Hermione says weakly. “Shouldn’t we go in groups?”

“What? Of course we’ll fit. We don’t have time to hang around.”

“Oh, come _on,”_ Ginny says, marching forward and pulling Neville with her. Harry follows, holding the door open as she, Neville, Ron and eventually Hermione and Luna squish inside.

“Come _on,_ Malfoy,” Harry growls. “Or do you want us to leave you here?”

Malfoy smiles sarcastically and steps in, hands held tightly to his chest as he tries to keep as far away from Neville as possible. Harry rolls his eyes and shoves in after them, closing the door and ignoring his noises of protest now buried between Ron’s shoulder blades.

“Whoever’s closest the receiver, dial _six, two, four, four, two!”_ he says. Ron reaches out his arm at a very awkward angle and stabs in the code, looking pleased when the dial clicks and whirls around.

“Whoever that is, get your hand off my arse,” Ginny hisses, half-turning into Hermione, who clutches her shoulders, wide-eyed. Harry smirks.

“Someone’s elbow is in my ribs,” Luna observes, unbothered.

“Done, Harry,” Ron says, and something chimes overhead.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” says the cool, female greeting voice. “Please state your name and business.”

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger—” Harry says quickly, “—Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and—er—Dudley Evans!” Malfoy shoots him a look that lands somewhere between gratitude and distaste. “We’re here to save someone, unless your Ministry lot can do it first!”

“Thank you,” says the voice. “Visitors, please retrieve your badges and attach them to a visible place on the front of your robes.”

Half a dozen plastic badges clatter into the metal return chute of the receiver, which Hermione scoops up wordlessly and hands to Harry over Ginny’s head. He takes them from her, cupping his hands when one starts to slide perilously. _Harry Potter, Rescue Mission,_ it reads. Malfoy snorts an amused laugh and grabs them to start handing them out.

“All visitors to the Ministry are required to submit to a search and present their wands for registration at the security desk,” the voice continues. “You will find this at the far end of the Atrium.”

“All right, fine!” Harry huffs. “Now can we please move!”

The whole box jolts unnervingly. They all glance at each other, not daring to move until the pavement begins to rise above their shins.

“Well this is rather silly, isn’t it,” Ginny murmurs, peering around. Harry can’t help but agree when they sink through several long seconds of darkness before a crack of light appears at the bottom of the box. He slides down the door in his best attempt to crouch and crane his neck to see out, wand in hand.

The Atrium, it seems, is utterly deserted.

The box comes to rest atop the dark polished tiles of the tunnel, and with another chime the door releases. Harry topples out, flailing his arms to keep his footing. The others follow, shaking themselves out and stretching as they glance nervously around.

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening.”

Not a single person is around to see them arrive, to Harry’s relief and unsettlement, and not a sound can be heard beside their own footsteps and breathing. 

Harry begins the walk towards the end of the atrium hall, where he can see the large marble and gold Fountain of Magical Brethren gleaming in the eerie, manufactured daylight. His reflection ripples in the tiles arching around and above them. The golden statues set into the walls beside each fireplace glint unnervingly. He walks faster and his friends follow, breaking into a run when he does and falling in to flank him without preamble.

In the tall, cylindrical chamber of the welcoming hall, everything is still. No jets of water rise from the wands of the witch or wizard, the arrow of the centaur, the goblin’s hat, nor from the ears of the house elf. The large fabric banner endorsing the Minister does not ripple now, as there is no false movement of air to cause it, and the likeness of Cornelius Fudge stares solemnly up into one of the many darkened overlooking windows. The security desk of the watchwizard sits empty, and there are no grey-robed wizards watching over any of the many gilded lift grates.

Harry strides straight up to the nearest ‘down’ button and jabs it, hard, restless from the waves of pain rolling through his scar. A lift clatters into sight almost immediately and the grilles slide apart with an echoing, clanking racket. The seven of them slip inside, each obviously grateful that the space outstrips the phone box easily. Harry presses the button for floor nine and braces himself.

The grilles slam shut and the lift shudders harshly before pulling away at speed, leaving Hermione, Ron, Neville and Ginny to make wild grabs for the leather straps swinging overhead. Malfoy snaps out a hand to catch Luna by the hood of her robes before she goes flying into the wall, but she only looks vaguely surprised.

“Couldn’t have warned us, could you?” Ginny grumbles.

Harry winces. “Sorry.”

The lift lurches into a vertical descent that has them all nearly lifted off the floor, and to a stop just as jarringly sharp. Harry has his wand trained down the corridor before their grilles even meet the secondary ones, but it’s just as empty as ever.

The lift slides to a noisy halt.

“The Department of Mysteries,” announces the cool overhead voice into an eerie, juxtaposed silence.

The corridor stretches in front of them in sleek black tile and dim, black-flamed sconces licking up the walls. The light from the lift spills out over the floor until the first junction, but Harry doesn’t care for it in the least. 

There, at the end of the corridor, is the door. The door he’s been dreaming about for months. The door that’s taunted him, called to him, begged him to open, to find, to _enter._

The door Voldemort is hiding behind.

“This is it,” he says so softly he almost doesn’t. His scar sears.

They step into the corridor, mirrored from all angles in the polished finish. Grey stone heads of snarling dragons leer down at them from the cornerstones of every arch they pass through, all the way down the corridor towards the black door with the single, central, brass door knob.

“Maybe…” he croaks. He clears his throat. “Look, maybe a few of us should stay here as a—as a look out, of sorts, in case—”

“And how’re we going to let you know if something’s coming?” Ginny asks. “You could be miles away in there.”

“There’d be no telling where you were, if we’d get to you in time,” Malfoy murmurs. “You’d just be splitting us up and getting us hopelessly lost—I’m not optimistic enough to say there aren’t Death Eaters clinging to every shadow in here.”

“We’re coming with you, Harry,” Neville murmurs.

“C’mon,” Ron says, nudging Harry with his elbow. “Let’s go.”

Harry bites his lip and steps up to the door. Just as it had in his dream, the knob turns and clicks open, and it hangs there ominously. Calling him.

He lies his palm against the wood—cool, solid, heavy—and pushes gently. It doesn’t creak as it swings inwards, and somehow it’s worse than if it did.

He walks over the threshold, excitement and anticipation joining the mixture of nerves in his chest. The others, as always, are on his heels.

They find themselves at one door of a set of many, all edging the wall of one large, circular room. Everything is black and seamless, from the walls and floor that glint like single-faceted crystal to the handleless doors all around them. Branches of candles sit on the walls between each door, their flames flickering blue and turning the floor into dark, opaque water. The ceiling is unknowable.

The door slams behind them, and they’re plunged into a darkness so thorough that for a moment all Harry can see are those shivering blue flames, burning like brands against the backs of his eyes, and their reflections in the floor.

In the dreams, Harry had strode straight across the floor to the door opposite. Just as he’s contemplating stepping towards the middle of the floor, the doors and their intermittent blue candles rumble and shift to the right. Harry blinks as they pick up speed, and realises suddenly that the wall is _moving._ It throws him off balance as the candlelight begins to blur into one dazzling, horizontal line, and Hermione grabs hold of his arm as if she, too, is trying not to list senselessly sideways.

As abruptly as it had begun, the wall slows again to a stop. 

“What was that about?” Ron whispers, voice threaded with a high note of fear.

“I think it was to keep us from finding the door we came through,” Ginny whispers back.

Of course, Ginny is right. When Harry can blink the blue lines out of his vision he realises that in a room of identical doors with identical proportions, he would not be able to pick out one way from another if held at wandpoint.

God, he hopes it doesn’t come to that.

“How’re we going to get back out?” Neville asks.

“I think we can figure that one out when we get to it,” Malfoy murmurs.

“We… We need to check them until we find the right one,” Harry says. “In the dreams it was one that sort of… glittered. There were lots of clicking noises. I’ll know it when we see it.”

When no one moves, Ron clears his throat. “We’d better get to it then, shouldn’t we? No time to lose, really…”

Malfoy sniffs again. “Before we all get lost down here for the rest of our lives, I’d like to make it known that I still despise every single one of you.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” say Ginny, Ron, Neville and Hermione.

Harry shakes himself from his idling and sets out for the door immediately opposite. He notes with some relief that everyone has their wands out at the ready.

The door opens without protest. After the darkness of the circular room of doors, the low-hanging lamps of this next room are nearly blinding. There are no odd glittery reflections on the walls here, and no mechanical clicking sounds; the room, although large, is quite empty aside for a few scattered desks and an enormous, unexpected cylindrical tank of bright green liquid rising from the middle of the floor. The tank stretches upwards into the foggy darkness, and is wide enough that Harry suspects they could all comfortably swim around inside it—not that he’d want to, not without knowing what the small, pale round blobs drifting around in it are.

“What are those things?” Ron hisses.

Harry shakes his head. “Dunno.”

“Are they fish?” Ginny asks, taking a step over the threshold to peer inside.

“Aquavirius maggots!” Luna exclaims. “Dad said the Ministry were breeding—”

“No,” Hermione says quietly. Harry looks at her, unnerved by the lack of expression in her voice. She walks past Ginny and up to the tank, trailing her fingers along the glass.

“They’re brains.”

_“Brains?”_

“Merlin, she’s right,” Malfoy breathes, hurrying up beside her. Harry sees his look of bemused revulsion reflected in the translucent liquid.

“I wonder what they’re doing with them…” Hermione says.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry calls, still standing in the doorway. 

“There are doors here too,” Ron says, pointing at the walls in which more faceless doors are indeed set.

“How big is this place?” Neville asks.

Harry catches his lip between his teeth. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

The seven of them hurry back into the dark, but just as Luna goes to close the door Hermione cries out.

“Wait!” she says. “We need to know where we’ve been!”

“How are we going to—” Harry begins, but she ignores him, jabbing her wand at the door.

 _“Flagrate!”_ she says, and slashes towards the top right corner. Just like Riddle in the Chamber three years ago, she draws a fiery line over its surface. Just in time, it seems, as no sooner than the latch clicks into place does the wall rumble and begin to rotate again. Harry squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of unpleasant light and movement, and when he opens them again the fiery marker is still burning brightly.

“Brilliant, Hermione,” he says. “Let’s try the next one?”

Again they advance on the door directly in front of them. This one opens into a large, domed amphitheatre, half lit with an eerie grey light for which Harry can’t find a source. Rows upon rows of stone steps—benches and stairs—ring the circumference, descending at their end by a sheer drop into a pit maybe four feet deep. In the centre of the pit is a round, rocky dias surrounded by a number of other abandoned boulders and debris. The dias boasts a tall, ancient stone archway that ripples with a faint, filmy light. Even if there’s no physical change to feel between this room and the last, Harry thinks he could almost reach out and touch the cool, silky power radiating through this coliseum. It electrifies the air and sends a shiver of warning down his spine.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, even though, somehow, he already knows there’s no one around to answer.

“Harry, be careful!” Hermione whispers as he scrambles down onto the steps. He can hear the others descending cautiously behind him. He creeps downwards, wand lit.

Nothing appears through any of the other doors at the top of the stairs. Nothing leaps out from behind the arch, whose veil continues to waft despite the utter stillness to the room.

Harry reaches the bottom of the stairs and levers himself into the pit, inhaling sharply when his shoes crunch in the dirt and detritus. Nothing moves, except for the veil, which sways as if someone has just passed through it, and Harry continues his slow sneak forwards. He has the strangest feeling that there’s someone standing just… there… Just behind it… Even though he can see quite clearly through its haze to the other side.

“What are you saying?” he finds himself mumbling as he faces it, standing squarely on the dias. He doesn’t remember climbing up, but he doesn’t have time to care for that now; he can hear the whispered edge of voices, murmurs, even the faintest trace of a laugh from within.

“Let’s go,” Hermione says, halfway up the stone steps. There’s a harshness to her words, and he can tell she’s much more scared than she was in the room with the brains. “Harry, something isn’t right here. Let’s _go.”_

But Harry doesn’t move. He stands in front of the veil, staring into it as if it might answer if he stays long enough. It compels him, whispers to him. The light of his wand reflects in it as it floats before him, turning long swathes of it slightly more opaque.

“What are you saying?” he asks again, taking another step closer.

“I can hear them too,” Luna says quietly, coming to a halt just over his left shoulder.

“There’s nothing _there,_ Harry!” Hermione calls. “It’s just an empty arch!”

“Feels weird, though,” Ron says, appearing around the other side of it. “I don’t like it… I don’t think you should go near it…”

 _“Harry!”_ Ginny shouts. Her voice rings around the room and into the ceiling, snapping Harry out of his daze like a slap to the face. 

“Sirius,” he gasps, and scrambles back to the door. Hermione marks it as soon as Malfoy manages to drag Luna out, and the wall spins a third time.

The third door they try doesn’t budge under Harry’s hand. It warms his palm, as if the room behind is engulfed in flames.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks.

Harry frowns, barging his shoulder against it. “I think it’s locked.”

“This is it then, isn’t it?” Ron says, throwing himself at the door next to Harry. “It’s bound to be, isn’t it?”

“Harry said all the doors in his dreams were open,” Hermione says, even as she nudges them aside and tries an unlocking spell.

“It’s probably locked for a reason,” Neville points out.

“We’re leaving it,” Hermione decides, dragging Harry to the next door over before he can complain. The room begins to spin, despite not getting the door open, and it almost knocks him off his feet. He shoves at the next door with more desperation than hope, and it swings open easily. 

Light dances in this next room, glinting off the wood-panelled walls and bouncing from one shiny metal rim to the next. The whole room is full of clocks of all kinds, ranging from small pocket watches and carriage clocks on desks that stretch the length of the long room to tall, aged grandfather clocks hunkering down against walls. Pendants dangle between bookcases and gleaming glass-fronted cabinets, and clock hands flutter in scissoring motions through the air above them. In the corner to their left, a sundial, independent of its sun, keeps perfect time on a large marble pedestal.

“This is it!” Harry crows with success. He heads in, determined, but it slowed by his awe at the sight of so many new, shining articles his dreams had not allowed him. The very walls vibrate with the persistent marching of hundreds of ticking hands, and Harry finally discovers the source of the shimmering light.

“Look at this!” Ginny marvels, standing in front of a towering crystal bell jar at the far end of the room. Harry and the others follow, circling the jar and gazing through it with awe.

It appears to be full of a fluttering glittering wind, circulating on its own volition and winking sparkles in every direction. Drifting along the current is a tiny, golden egg, that before their very eyes rises up and cracks open, spitting out a beautiful jewel blue and green hummingbird. The bird flutters its dazzling wings and soars to the very top of the jar, but as it falls back into the current its wings slump with damp and become bedraggled with amniotic fluid. By the time it reaches the bottom of the jar again, it is enclosed once more inside the egg.

“Time,” mutters Malfoy. Harry rolls his eyes. Yes, thank you, even _he_ has worked that one out.

Hermione tugs Ginny away from the jar and they continue on, approaching the door at the end of the room—the only door—with apprehension. Harry reaches out and places his palm flush against it.

“Ready?” he asks, voice hushed.

“Ready,” say Hermione and Ron.

“Well we’re not going back now,” Ginny mutters.

Harry pushes open the door.

They’re in the room with the shelves, just as Harry’s dream had predicted. The hall stretches on in all directions, sinking into the gloom and the darkness that clings like an ominous fog to the edges of their vision. The only light in here emanates from the crystal balls lined up one after the other, endlessly, swirling with glowing silver mist. A soundless hum of magic moves between them as they step inside, lighting their wands and holding them out into the murkiness. 

The cold in here is slow, malevolent, and permeating.

“This way,” Harry whispers, and begins to walk quickly and quietly between the rows.

_Seventy-three… Seventy-five…_

He glances behind him, past the others, and realises the door they’d come through standing alone in the middle of the corridor, no wall in sight.

_Eighty-seven… Ninety-one…_

Harry takes a left down row ninety-seven. He can already see that the gap at the end of the aisle is empty, and he breaks into a run.

They emerge onto the next corridor. Everything is as still and silent as it was when they arrived.

Harry stares at the spot on the floor where he’d seen Sirius. He can hear his friends moving about, see the glinting of their wand lighting charms bouncing off the shells of the crystal balls in the corners of his vision, but nothing besides moves.

Sirius is not here.

“Harry?” Ron asks, sounding faint. Harry, whose neck has grown very hot and prickly with shame and fear, snaps his head up to look.

“Harry,” he says again. “Have you seen this?”

Harry wanders cautiously back down the aisle to where Ron is peering up at one of the smaller crystal balls on shelf ninety-seven. He looks confused. Wary. Scared, even.

“What is it?” Harry asks.

Ron swallows and raises his wand to the curling, yellowing tag attached to its stand. “It’s got your name on it.”

Several inches shorter than Ron (still), Harry has to crane his neck to read the blotchy ink.

_...th ...ember, 1...80_

_S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D._

_Dark Lord_

_and (?) Harry James Potter_

“What is it?” Ron asks, biting his lip. He looks along the rest of the aisle. “None of us are here… Why you?”

 _“‘S.P.T.’…”_ says Malfoy, leaning over Harry’s shoulder. Harry veers away, curling towards Ron to avoid him. “Isn’t that… Sybil Trelawney? To Dumbledore?”

“It could be anyone, couldn’t it?” Ginny says flippantly. “Look, the date is nineteen-eighty… That’s ages ago.”

“Sixteen years ago…” Harry says. The year of his birth.

Ron makes a small noise. “When Umbridge was grilling Trelawney in class, didn’t she say she’d had the job for sixteen years?”

Harry blinks, looking up at him. “Yeah… Actually, she _did_ say that… You don’t think this has something to do with it, do you?”

“Well, crystal balls, divination… They go together, don’t they?”

Harry reaches a hand out towards it.

“Wait, don’t!” Ron says, grabbing his wrist.

“Why? It’s got my name on it—it’s to do with me, isn’t it?”

Ron grimaces. “I just… I don’t like this.”

“None of us do,” Harry says, and takes the crystal ball from its perch.

He expects it to be cold as surely as it is smooth. Instead, with some surprise, Harry realises that the ball is comfortably warm, as if it’s been lying in the sun for hours. He expects something to happen, something monumental; nothing does.

“Harry!” Hermione whispers urgently. Her voice carries from where she stands with Neville and Luna at the end of the aisle. The end of the aisle where Sirius should be and _isn’t._

_“Harry!”_

Still clutching the crystal ball, Harry, Ron, Malfoy and Ginny hurry to the end of the row to join them, skidding out in front with their lit wands raised. They each take in a sudden, jagged breath when the realisation hits.

In front of them, a dark robed figure walks slowly, purposefully out of the gloom. A sneering, silver mask sits over their face, glinting in the light of the crystals.

“You know,” says a smooth, creeping voice that makes Malfoy stiffen on Harry’s left, “you really should learn to tell the difference… between dreams… and reality.”

The figure unsheathes their wand from a familiar, silver, serpent-headed cane and flourishes it gracefully in front of them. The mask follows the movement, melts away into smoke, and the face of none other than Lucius Malfoy emerges from beneath it.

Beside Harry, Malfoy swallows audibly.

“You saw only what the Dark Lord crafted for you to see…” Lucius continues. He comes to a stop several rows away. “Now, _hand me that prophecy.”_

Harry snarls and holds the crystal ball in front of him, facing the floor.

“You try anything with us and I break it!” 

From behind Lucius comes an unhinged, screeching kind of laugh that sends shivers straight down Harry’s spine and his stomach plummeting.

“The _boy_ knows how to play!” cries a high female voice. It echoes through the hall, bouncing off the floor and shelves. “The itty, bitty, _baby_ Potter!”

A thin woman in similarly black robes, unmasked and as pale as Lucius, steps into view. Her face is somewhat gaunt—hollow cheeked and bruised beneath the eyes—and her hair a studied settling of curls, pulled half back over her forehead. Harry thinks she may have been beautiful, once, before the deranged, heartless look had settled into her eyes.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” says Neville, stepping up to Ron’s shoulder.

“Oh,” says Bellatrix. “Neville Longbottom, is it? How’s mum and dad?”

“A lot better now they’re about to be avenged—!”

Neville makes a sudden movement, meaning to slip between Ron and Harry with his wand levelled at Bellatrix’s chest, but Harry throws his arm out to stop him. Bellatrix, too, has snapped her wand up towards them, eyebrows and corners of her lips raised as she anticipates the fight.

“Now, now,” says Lucius, half turned towards Bellatrix and raising his wand and cane in a placating gesture. “Let’s everybody just… Calm down. All we want is that prophecy… Hand it over, and no one need get hurt…”

 _“Accio—!”_ Bellatrix begins, but Harry’s ready for her.

“PROTEGO!” he shouts, spanning a rippling shield around himself and the others in less than a heartbeat. The crystal ball slips to the ends of his fingers but he grips it tightly, clinging to its smooth edge for dear life.

“Come, now, Bella!” Lucius snaps. “We don’t want to break it.”

“So why did Voldemort need me to come and get it?” Harry asks.

“You _dare_ speak his name?” Bellatrix hisses. “YOU FILTHY HALF-BLOOD!”

Her shout rings through the hall and hangs there, accusing.

“It’s all right,” Lucius says placidly. Harry can hear the tremble in Malfoy’s breathing beside him.

“Did you know he’s a half-blood too?” Harry asks, stupidly reckless and too angry to stop himself. “Voldemort? That his father was a muggle? Bewitched? Or has he been selling you lot on some pureblood rubbish—”

 _“SILENCE!”_ Bellatrix screams, flinging out a jet of red light. Lucius Malfoy snarls and flicks his wand, deflecting it and sending it splashing out over the metal grid floor.

“A prophecy may only be retrieved by those about whom it was made… Luckily for you.”

The distant, echo-y sounds of more footsteps from all around have his friends turning on the spot; he feels Luna gasp as her hair brushes his shoulder, and Ginny knocks into her when she takes a step back, but Harry keeps his glare fixed, solidly, on the Death Eaters in front of them.

“Haven’t you always wondered what the connection was between you… and the Dark Lord?” Lucius simpers, inching closer and ignoring Bellatrix’s silent, roiling fury. “Haven’t you always wondered… _Why?_ Hm? Why he was unable to kill you? You were only an infant, at the time… Don’t you want to know the secret? The secret of your scar?”

He stops barely two paces away. Harry stares him down, worrying in the back of his mind when he sees Malfoy turn up his nose as if not daring to shy away. Lucius ignores him and holds out his hand, wand replaced in his cane, and almost smiles.

“All of the answers are in your hand,” he says. “All you have to do is give it to me. I can show you… _Everything.”_

Harry glances down at the prophecy in his hand. He’s aware that they’ve been surrounded on all sides, that Ginny and Hermione are facing down the row to Malfoy’s left, that Neville and Ron have turned to Harry’s right, and that Luna’s on her own at his back. He knows Malfoy is too afraid to lift his wand against his father and aunt, that opening his mouth would give him away for certain. He knows that this prophecy is what Voldemort came for.

“I’ve waited fourteen years,” Harry tells Lucius tremulously. The man tuts and shakes his head in false sympathy.

“I know,” he says, and Harry raises his head to look him in the eye.

“But I guess I can wait a little longer. _STUPEFY!”_

Harry is endlessly awed, then, by how attuned all of his friends are to his actions. Every single one of them lash out at the same time, shouting with a force that might knock the Death Eaters away even without the following stunners.

Lucius jerks back to Bellatrix and both brush away the attack, but they apparate into the ceiling regardless and leave the path open for their escape. 

“They must have disabled the anti-apparition wards!” Hermione wails.

Harry takes off instantly at a sprint, gratified at the sound of numerous running footsteps on his tail as he darts around a corner and into a random row of shelves. They get nearly to the end before a column of black mist collects across the intersection and Lucius Malfoy reappears, hand held solemnly out for the prophecy. Harry skids to a halt and Hermione gasps next to him, grabbing onto his arm as he pulls her away down another stretch of the matrix. 

There’s a clatter and a shriek behind him, and then he hears Luna shout and a deep, panicked yell. He keeps running, squeezing through a narrow passage and glancing back at Ron and Hermione.

 _“Petrificus totalus!”_ they hear Neville bellow, and they turn into a wider corridor only for two more columns of smoke to descend either side of them.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Harry cries, but the figure disapparates again and the spell sails into the darkness beyond. He runs on, hearing Ron and Hermione fling more stunners at the Death Eater chasing them, and then turns sharply into another corridor. A face appears hovering beside him in a rapid ruffling of robes—one of the Death Eaters follows him along without returning to the ground, grabbing onto his shoulder and tugging.

The tinkling of many crystal balls dropping to the floor approaches them from behind as they wrestle, until Harry manages to force his wand into his other hand and point it at the man’s face.

_“Stupefy!”_

Whoever he is, he releases Harry with a final tug and goes tumbling away down another row. Harry continues pelting down the corridor, almost tripping over his feet when he sees blonde hair coming his way and tries to stop.

He, Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Ginny and Malfoy collide in the middle of a junction with a few yelps and a shriek, but Harry is grateful no one’s captured or badly hurt. They stop for a moment, clutching at each other’s arms and gasping for breath, before all turning to watch the approaching billow of black smoke.

 _“Reducto!”_ Ginny yells, firing off one powerful, precise spell. It meets its target dead on in what looks like an explosion of blue-ish white light, and all of them jerk back in surprise. The Death Eater drops to the ground, smoking and trailing light. Harry notices a movement above and glances up.

One by one the crystal balls on the top tiers of the towering shelves come plummeting to the ground, falling faster and faster by the second until entire walls of them are tumbling like water to shatter against the floor. Ginny steps back and fists her hand in Harry’s sleeve, watching the destruction creep towards them with growing horror.

Behind them, Ron whimpers.

Harry stumbles backwards, tripping over Malfoy’s foot as they begin to make their retreat. Neville darts forwards and snatches up Luna’s hand when she stands there, transfixed by the glowing lights.

“Get back to the door!” Harry shouts. “We need to find the door!”

“How?” Malfoy asks. “Where even—”

Harry looks desperately up at the shelves, thankful for the light that reflects off their glinting archival plates. _Fifty one… Fifty two… Fifty three…_

“This way!” Harry calls, tucking his wand between his fingers and grasping Ginny’s hand, hauling her along behind him. _At least we haven’t destroyed the path to our way out,_ he thinks, throwing a glance over his shoulder as the _clump, clump clump_ of heavy shelves toppling into one another like dominoes increases in speed and volume. Dark shadows twist and tumble around them with the sharp snapping of flapping robes in wind. The light from the broken prophecies is so bright that it’s almost blinding, but it throws the black door into brilliant profile when it comes into view. Harry runs head-first through it, almost careening straight into the giant glass bell jar at top speed.

He turns around when he hears the door slam. He has his wand in one hand and the prophecy in the other, but he ignores them to lean on his knees and heave for breath.

 _“Colloportus!”_ Hermione says, wand pointed towards the door. Just in time, it seems, when two heavy thuds and a howl of fury—or pain—sound on the other side.

“What do we do?” Ginny asks. They can hear shouting outside the door where Lucius Malfoy is giving orders.

“We have to move,” says Malfoy the younger. “We need to get away from the door.”

Harry nods and waves them farther into the room. He pats Neville on the back as he passes, and they head in a jog for the other end of the room.

 _“Alohomora!”_ someone in the prophecy hall shouts, and the door flies open behind them. Harry vaults the nearest desk and dives under it, crouched behind the half-height kickboard. He can see the robes of four Death Eaters striding through the room.

“They might’ve run straight through to the hall,” one says.

“Check under the desks,” growls another.

Before they can even begin to bend down, Harry drops to the floor and shouts, _“Stupefy!”_

The nearest Death Eater is struck squarely in the ankle and stumbles backwards into a tall grandfather clock, smashing through the glass and sending the both of them crashing to the ground. A second Death Eater leaps aside, but the third and fourth are struck by spells thrown by several of the others. Harry jumps to his feet to tackle the second, who is levelling his wand at Hermione with the killing curse rolling from the tip of his tongue. He takes him by surprise, colliding with his knees as he does, and they both hit the floor hard.

Several tiny silver daggers thud into the floor at Harry’s feet and one into the Death Eater’s thigh, who bellows in anger and flings it back towards Ginny.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ Neville shouts, and both Harry’s and the Death Eater’s wands go flying back towards the hall of prophecies. Harry yanks on black robes in his struggle to get up first as they both scramble to collect their wands.

“Potter, duck!” Malfoy shouts, and as Harry dives out of the way, three stunners fly over his head. One hits the Death Eater in the back, knocking him out cold; one sails through the bell jar and splashes uselessly against the wall at the end of the room; the third hits a large glass cabinet full of assorted hourglasses. The cabinet topples forward and shatters on the floor, glass spraying every which way, but then it springs back up against the wall all on its own, mending itself. It falls, shatters, and rights itself a second time. Harry watches it until he realises it’s not going to stop.

A sudden screech has his gaze snapping up to a curtain of flyaway red hair splayed over a black robe as Ginny is tackled to the ground in front of him. The Death Eater rolls off her and has her at wandpoint, another dagger protruding conspicuously from his side, but Hermione blasts him away with terrifying fury until he’s staggering towards the bell jar. 

Harry expects him to thud against it, maybe clunk his head on the glass and helpfully knock himself out, but instead suffers the surprise of watching him fall straight through. He comes to a gentle rest lying inside it, but Harry pays little attention. He crawls quickly towards Ginny, joined by Ron who drops to his knees. They turn her on her back and sigh relief when she merely groans and swipes at her face in an attempt to part her tangled hair.

 _“Accio wand,”_ Hermione says, summoning Harry’s wand and throwing it to him. He catches it and helps Ginny up, and they continue their stumble towards the door at the end of the room. The fourth Death Eater, Harry finds out, has contracted a nasty case of tentacles-to-the-face, much like his and George’s combined jinxes had done to Crabbe last year. Despite himself, he huffs a soundless laugh.

“Oh my god!” Neville gasps. He’s looking back towards the bell jar, and everyone turns with him, wands at the ready. 

No attack is forthcoming. Instead, the Death Eater in the bell jar thrashes wildly. From where they are at a distance, it’s a little hard to see, but when Harry adjusts his glasses it looks like his head is growing bigger and smaller in a precise, endless loop. Eventually the Death Eater struggles up and heaves himself from the jar—every single one of them exclaims in surprise. On his shoulders, where his head and mask should be, is the head of a pudgy, angry baby.

“Oh Merlin,” says Malfoy. “What the _fuck.”_

“Come on,” Harry says, nudging them back towards the exit with urgency. The Death Eater-cross-baby flails about wildly, so Harry’s less than concerned about any complicated spellwork coming from _him,_ but as they reach the circular Entrance Chamber, a number of Death Eaters spring from doors all around.

“RUN!” he yells, and dives towards the first door on his left. He bursts through and almost falls flat on his face with the sudden, blinding light and rush of noise. Blinking away the quivering spots in his vision, Harry gropes for something to support himself with and almost topples over an ice cold, damp metal railing. Someone beside him gasps and Ron, thudding gracelessly to the floor, swears loudly.

The resemblance of this room to the previous ends with the wood panelling on the walls. The room is huge, rectangular, and almost as tall as it is long, and lit from somewhere over the gallery above by what seems to be entirely natural sunlight. In front of him, behind the railing he’s leaning on in the right hand corner, is a huge torrent of water that gushes in a waterfall from above and descends through a hole in the floor to a void impossibly far below. A deep, heavy rush of air over Harry’s head startles him into looking up; a truly colossal metal sphere swings on a silver cord from their end of the hall to the middle, where it collides silently with the stationary set of four identical spheres in its path. The fourth sphere is knocked high into the air over the other end of the hall while the first comes to a complete, immediate rest.

Something crashes and shatters loudly behind them. Harry hauls Ron off the floor and stumbles farther into the room, fingers wrapped tightly in his sleeve. They pass a tall, solitary stone plinth cradling a healthy fan of flames. Without warning, something powdery bursts above it and the flames flare up bright purple before settling back to normal. On the left wall is a veritable botanical garden of climbing plants and trees, all swaying unconcernedly in the breezy wake of the titanic Newton’s cradle. In front of Harry, Ginny ducks behind a plasma sphere the size of Hagrid’s cabin.

 _“There they are!”_ shouts a rough voice behind them. 

_“Stupefy!”_ Harry cries in reply, aiming his wand somewhere over his shoulder.

 _“Impedimenta!”_

Ron and Harry fly apart. Harry tumbles over on his shoulder, yelling out at the horrible wrench it gives when it hits the floor and cradling the prophecy to his chest as best he can. He slides several feet on his side, away from Ginny and Ron, ducking under a huge, lightning-strike arc of electricity snapping between two tall, thin metal conductors.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ he shouts, rolling to a stop and aiming for the door. _“Petrificus totalus!”_

“Just hand it over, Potter!” one of them snarls. “Stop wasting time!”

“Why should I?” Harry snaps. “You’re only going to kill us anyway!”

A short, high scream echoes in from the Entrance Chamber.

“HERMIONE!” Ron bellows. Harry can see him scrambling out from behind some sort of spinning-arm contraption, even as two of the Death Eaters round on him. 

_“Protego!”_ Harry shouts, wand aimed at Ron, just as Ginny yells, _“Ventus!”_

Ginny’s blast of wind knocks Ron and the three Death Eaters off their feet. Two spells bounce off Harry’s shield, and Ron cries, _“Stupefy!”_

The spell hits the nearest Death Eater currently struggling to his feet. He screams and staggers backwards, tipping over the railing and into the roaring waterfall. Harry’s fairly certain they’re not going to see him again for a while.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ Harry tries again, and this time the wands of the two others come careening towards him. They fly straight into the bolt of crackling electricity and explode with a deafening _BANG,_ clattering singed and smoking to the floor.

“Harry, come on!” Ginny cries. She and Ron race towards the stairs in the right wall that lead up into the gallery. Harry pushes himself up and runs after them, leaping the stairs three at a time and panting for breath by the time he’s slumped beside them behind the wall at the top.

“You okay?” he gasps, gawking at the swinging cradle now it’s at eye-level.

“Fine,” Ron whimpers. “Hermione…”

Harry swallows. “She’s brilliant, Ron, I’m sure she can look after herself.”

“I know she is…”

“The boy’s in here!” one of the Death Eaters below shouts. Several sets of footsteps come clumping over the sound of the waterfall.

“Come on,” Ginny hisses, pulling herself up the wall on unsteady knees. “The sooner we find them the sooner we can get them out, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry says, and Ron nods. Below, the Death Eaters have reached the staircase.

“Let’s try that door there!”

The three of them sneak as quickly as they can towards the black door at the closer end of the gallery, breaking into a run when they hear the footsteps crossing the first landing of the stairwell.

Ron screams as he topples through the door first; Harry almost chokes when he finds out why. They free fall for several heart-stopping seconds into a pitch black room, but before Harry can choke a spell through the wind forcing its way into his lungs the air thickens and warms around them. He and Ron slow to almost a stop, joined shortly by Ginny, who looks very pale indeed. The floor is still several feet below them, shimmering like a sparkly version of the marble in the Entrance Chamber.

Several deep breaths later, Harry is cognisant enough to look around. They’re floating in darkness, yes, but it is not totally black—several large, spherical objects float around them, forming glowing points of blue-ish light. Squinting at them, he thinks one or two rather resemble some of the ragged old models they had in his primary school to explain atoms. Tiny pinpricks of golden light zoom around them, orbiting different parts of Harry’s body and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. Ron, flailing amusingly upside down, seems to have collected the most out of the three of them.

“In here!” echoes a rough voice from above. Harry tries desperately to swim through the air, managing little but turning himself over and over uselessly.

 _Put us down,_ he thinks furiously. _Put us down! Please!_

To his surprise, his feet find their way underneath him, and he drops gracefully to the floor. Ginny chokes and falls to the floor next to him with a strangled scream. 

“Ginny!” Ron cries, still struggling in the air.

“My ankle!” she gasps. “It’s twisted!”

_“Stupefy!”_

Harry’s spell splashes uselessly against the shiny black wall as two jets of light soar towards them. One hits Ron as he struggles, and he drops instantly to the ground with a cry.

“RON!” Harry yells, throwing himself over his best friend and firing off several more spells at the floating Death Eaters.

“Harry,” Ron says, and he sounds frighteningly far away. He giggles, and Harry feels panic well behind his ribs. “Harry… Are we in space?”

“Ron!” he says. “Ron, what’s wrong?”

Ron giggles again and flaps one of his hands vaguely. “It’s so sparkly in here!”

“We’ve got to get out!” Ginny says again, urgently, limping over to where they’re sprawled on the floor. “You take Ron, I’ll hold them off.”

Harry shoves his arm between the floor and Ron’s back, mindful as he can be of the prophecy still in his hand. He heaves him up, a heavy, unwieldy dead weight (but much lighter than when he had done the same for Dudley, too many months ago), and glances around desperately for an exit. There’s one just to their left and he limps for it, slamming his thigh into the edge of an unseen, oddly prismoid cupboard as he goes. Spells whizz past them, bellowing against Ginny’s expert shields and soaring harmlessly away, giving them just enough time to get through the door before the Death Eaters are on them again.

 _“Colloportus!”_ Ginny shouts as she slams the door behind her, and they find themself tilting precariously as walls of the Entrance Chamber begin to spin once again. Harry realises with a sinking heart that Hermione’s markings have disappeared.

“Was that Uranus we saw, Harry?” Ron giggles, slumping to his knees. “Uranus in space… Get it? Uranus?”

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Harry whispers loudly. He picks him back up when the wall settles and makes for another one of the doors. If they have twelve options to search for the exit, they might as well get started… 

“I don’t know,” Ginny worries. “Confundus charm gone wrong, maybe?”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I… I don’t—”

A door across the hall bursts open, emitting the harrowing, echoing laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange. 

“Run!” yells a bloody-nosed Neville, limping through the door at speed with Hermione draped over his arms. Harry throws himself into the room they’re headed to, flinging Ron unceremoniously to the floor, and goes to help Neville with Hermione.

“THERE THEY ARE!” comes Bellatrix’s shrieking voice. She and three other Death Eaters have followed Luna and Malfoy out of the room and are sprinting towards them. Harry yanks Luna inside and slams the door, screaming _“Colloportus!”_ in the second before the heavy weight of several bodies slams against the wood.

“It doesn’t matter!” says one of the Death Eaters outside. “There are loads of other ways in—WE’VE GOT THEM OVER HERE! THEY’RE HERE!”

“Get the doors!” Harry yells, gratified to see Luna and Malfoy already vaulting the desks to get to them. They’ve made it back to the brain room, Ginny with a sprained and swelling ankle, Ron very worryingly out of it, Neville with a certainly broken nose, and Hermione—

“What happened to her?” Harry asks, running to Neville and gazing down at the slash across Hermione’s cheek.

“I’m not sure,” Neville says, a little muffled by his nose. “They got her good with something—she hit her head pretty badly—”

 _“Rennervate!”_ Harry casts, a desperate edge whispering in his voice. Hermione gasps and convulses once in Neville’s arms, so violently he almost drops her.

“What—?” she wheezes, eyes fluttering open before she chokes on air and begins coughing wetly. Neville lowers her to the floor gently, propping up her back.

 _“Collo—AAH!”_ Luna screams as she’s flung back across the room, colliding with the edge of a desk and sliding across the floor in a defenseless, unmoving heap. 

_“Luna!”_

Five Death Eaters surge into the room through the one she hadn’t got to in time.

“There he is!” Bellatrix shrieks. “Get him! Get Potter!”

Harry dodges her reaching hands and runs down the room, careful to keep the prophecy tucked into his side. He passes the brain tank and circles around it, ducking and weaving whatever spells the Death Eaters are lobbing at him. He can see volleys of response from his friends, increasing in determination and intensity until the room looks like it’s full of fireworks.

“Harry!” Ron cries giddily, sitting himself up against one of the desks. “Harry, there are brains in here!”

“Ron, get down!” Harry yells. “Get out of the way, you’ll get hurt!”

“No, Harry, honest!” He giggles drunkenly. “They’re brains, look! _Accio brain!”_

Harry slides to a stop a few feet away from Ron as the whole room seems to descend into half-speed. The volleys of spells dissipate as, in spite of themselves, the Death Eaters turn in surprise to watch.

One of the brains in the tank speeds through the green fluid towards the glass; for a moment Harry thinks it won’t be able to get to them, but, like with the bell jar, the brain seeps through unhindered and begins soaring through the air towards Ron. Ghostly white tentacles unravel from its insides, translucent moving images playing like film across the surface of each one.

“RON, NO!” Harry shouts, slashing his wand toward the brain.

He’s too late. With a squelch, the brain lands in Ron’s outstretched hands, much to his apparent delight.

“Harry, look!” Ron grins, watching the tentacles begin to wrap themselves around his arms immediately. His face falls within moments, brows crumpling inwards as he jerks back.

“No, Harry, wait—I don’t like that—no, no! Stop! _Stop!”_

 _“Diffindo!”_ Harry screams, _“Diffindo!"_

But the tentacles continue to wrap themselves around Ron, creeping up his arms and lashing out from the body of the brain to bind to his chest as he thrashes. Harry collapses to his knees beside him and slices at it with spell after spell.

 _“Bombarda!”_ he tries, frantic, and the brain finally severs from Ron’s chest. The tentacles flop limply around him and Harry tears them away one-handed, knowing Bellatrix must be about to pounce any moment. He hisses as the tentacles sear his fingers but pays it no mind, instead shoving Ron away from the gelatinous mass and scrambling back to his feet. He felt a pulse—he knows Ron is still alive.

Malfoy, Ginny, Hermione and Neville are still on their feet fighting. They’ve managed to back up around Harry, Luna and Ron, forming a barrier of shield spells and bombardment against the salvo of dark magic.

“YOU WANT THIS?” Harry bellows, thrusting the prophecy into the air. “COME AND GET IT!”

He skids forward and darts beneath Neville’s arm, bolting straight through the only open door and ignoring Hermione screaming his name. He almost turns his ankle and falls face-first down the steps before he realises which room he’s in. At the bottom is the stone arch and veil, and under his foot is the very edge of the topmost step of the amphitheatre. He turns and sprints around the topmost ring instead, flinging locking spells with more hope than skill towards the other doors ringing the room. He supposes he’s largely unsuccessful when half a dozen columns of billowing smoke tumble into the room after him, knocking him off his ledge and forcing him to run down, down, _down_ into the pit. The Death Eaters swipe at him, blustering past and coming closer and closer until the backs of his knees hit the dias and he climbs up onto it, never once turning his back.

“HARRY!” Ginny yells from the top of the stairs.

“NO, GO BACK!”

 _“HARRY, NO!”_ Hermione screams.

Bellatrix cackles, completely unhinged, and suddenly the swooping disapparitions split away from Harry. He’s blinded, briefly, by the swirling mass of darkness, but when it clears, when the Death Eaters land evenly in a ring around the dais, each Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Malfoy are being held tightly at wandpoint. Neville snarls as Bellatrix yanks on his hair, exposing his throat, and Malfoy trembles under the hands of the man Harry recognises as Antonin Dolohov—the murderer of Ron and Ginny’s uncles.

The rhythmic tapping of a cane against stone brings Harry’s attention to Lucius Malfoy striding sedately towards him. 

“Did you actually think?” Lucius asks. “Were you actually naive enough to believe that _children_ stood a chance against us?”

“We’ve been doing an all right job so far,” Harry replies, somewhat shakily. Lucius sneers, coming to a stop just in front of him.

“You’re outnumbered, Potter. You see, there are ten of us and one of you… Or did Dumbledore never teach you how to count?”

“It was the muggles that did that, actually,” Harry says, though he doesn’t know quite why. “Hogwarts doesn’t seem to be the number one place for, uh, general studies.”

“I’ll make this _simple,”_ Lucius snaps coldly, holding out his hand once again. “Give—me—the prophecy— _now._ Or watch your friends… Die.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Harry tells him. The prophecy glows with warmth in his hand.

“Oh? And why not?”

“I wouldn’t like to say.”

Just over Lucius’ shoulder, Harry can see Malfoy’s glamours slipping. The hair between Dolohov’s fingers is paling and growing longer, and his nose is beginning to return to its usual shape. Some feet away, Bellatrix gasps loudly.

“Oh!” she screeches. “Have we a _traitor_ in the house of the Dark Lord?”

Lucius Malfoy blinks and frowns towards her. “What are you—?”

Thankfully or otherwise, he doesn’t quite get to find out.

_“IMPEDIMENTA!”_

A booming, echoing voice shudders through the room. Harry looks up in shock, finding himself frozen to the spot, and almost sobs at the sight of Kingsley, Tonks, Remus, Sirius and Moody standing each at one of the doors surrounding the room. All five disapparate in front of Harry’s very eyes, swooping around him in clouds of pale white. Everywhere Harry looks, Death Eaters are being swept this way and that while they remain helpless to move. One of the white columns tumbles down in front of Harry, leaving Sirius stood proudly in its place.

“That’s my godson,” he tells Lucius, and punches him square in the jaw.

With a bright flash and a breath of air, a number of other white columns are apparating into the middle of the room. Emmeline Vance and Hestia Jones land primly a few paces away, wands already twirling out spells and jinxes, shortly joined by three wizards Harry can’t name and Bill Weasley.

“All right, Harry!” Bill shouts over to him. “Don’t let them get hold of that, will you?”

Harry finally regains movement of his limbs as Bill races away, leaping up the stairs and twisting a Death Eater into an effortless throw over his shoulder. Sirius grabs Harry’s arm and covers him as they hide behind one of the arms of the stone arch. Someone in black robes rounds on them, flinging a volley of blasting spells that they knock away easily. Stone explodes around them, showering them in dust and pebbles. A few feet away, he can see Tonks leaping up onto a boulder and taking Ginny by the hand.

“Listen to me, Harry,” Sirius says, pulling him around to the other side of the arch. “I need you to take the others and get out of here!”

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS ONE DOING HERE?” someone bellows.

“No!” Harry says. “No, Sirius, I’m staying with you!”

“Harry, you’ve—”

“DRACO!” comes the screech of Lucius Malfoy.

“Oh god,” Harry says. “Um, just so you know, Draco Malfoy’s on our side now, so, um—”

“It’s all right,” Sirius says, but he doesn’t get any further before two Death Eaters are descending before them.

 _“Stupefy!”_ snarls one, and Sirius grunts as he lurches forward to deflect him. Harry doesn’t even have to think before he’s tossing wordless hexes in tandem with Sirius, over his shoulder, under his arm, back to back as they battle.

Bellatrix’s cackling ricochets between them all, bouncing around the domed ceiling and amplifying horrendously. There’s an almighty crunching noise from above, compelling many of the duelers to look up. A handful of long, malevolent shards of black crystal are emerging from the stone walls, uneven and sentient. They reach out for the closest Death Eaters and wind tightly around them until they scream. Harry notices Bill knelt at the top of the stairs with his wand point down in the middle of a glowing red ritual circle, has half an ear on Lucius Malfoy’s enraged shouting, and is throwing hexes every which way about him. He almost jumps out of his skin when Draco snaps and bellows back.

 _“WELL I DON’T WANT TO GET STUCK AS HIS FUCKING SLAVE LIKE YOU, DO I?”_

The words hang perilously in the air. It distracts the Death Eaters fighting Harry and Sirius long enough for them to disarm them both and blast them from the dias.

“Nice one, Harry!” Tonks shouts, whizzing past them. She barrels into Lucius bearing down on his son halfway up the stairs, but a stray spell catches her in the back and sends her tumbling back down, hitting every step along the way.

 _“Tonks!”_ Hermione and Ginny scream, pulling her prone body into their hiding place.

By now, most of the Death Eaters are knocked out, bound, or apparating quickly from one spot to the next. A black cloud lands on a platform across from Harry and Sirius, and they hear another of Bellatrix’s garbled, gleeful shrieks as a bright green curse flies from her wand and splashes over Sirius’ chest.

Harry screams. 

Sirius gasps and stumbles back, teetering on his heels before the open arch. His body begins to fall backwards, his hands falling limply to his sides and his wand dropping to the stone. Harry is too late to reach him, too far away, but he can’t—

 _“CARPE RETRACTUM!”_ Remus bellows. Sirius lurches forward again, away from the veil. He falls to the dais, crumpling like paper, and Bellatrix howls.

Harry drops to his knees beside Sirius, pushing him onto his back and fluttering hands over his face, his arm, his chest… His hair tumbles like black water over his face, as pale and expressionless as a sheet… 

_“Harry!”_ shout several people, Neville and Moody included. Harry looks up just in time to see Remus throw himself in the way of a new barrage of Bellatrix’s curses and take the brunt of a large majority of them.

 _“NO!”_ Harry yells, scrambling forward to catch him before he falls next to Sirius, just as limp and unresponsive. _“NO, REMUS!”_

Bellatrix shrieks with laughter. Harry grinds his teeth as he glares at her, watching her hold her sides and double over with an obvious gleam of mania in her eyes. He stands, slowly, and holds the crystal prophecy up in front of him. She’s the only one left, and he knows she knows it.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT,” he bellows. “THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT, ISN’T IT?”

Bellatrix calms to a quiet giggling, leering at him from her perch.

“Are you going to hand it over, Potter?” she taunts. “Are you going to hand it over to save your friends? To save _Sirius?”_

A cold smirk steals its way across Harry’s lips.

“Absolutely not,” he tells her, and throws the prophecy as hard as he can towards the stone at his feet.

The whole room rings silent for the split second it takes for the crystal ball to plummet to the ground. It shatters spectacularly on impact and its smokey insides rise up, forming a horrific, stretched version of Trelawney’s bespectacled face, and begins to speak.

Bellatrix screams with fury at the same moment Harry snarls and kicks his foot through the mist, forcing it apart and destroying the prophecy forever. She disapparates and soars towards him, veering around as he ducks and flings himself from the platform, rolling across the pit and springing up onto the steps. He races upwards, towards the nearest door, leading her through whatever interference the Order want to give. 

She’s still on his tail when he bursts back into the brain room. Whoever is tending to Ron and Luna at the very edge of his vision yelps as Harry comes barrelling through, reaching for the next door and running through room after room.

“POTTER!” Bellatrix screams. “POTTER, YOU INSUFFERABLE CREATURE!”

He’s running through a room that—to Ron’s possible excitement—really does have a large, floating model of Uranus, when he’s ripped off his feet and into the air. He tries to swing himself back around, crying out _“Finite!”_ when Bellatrix screams and he realises this is not one of her curses.

 _Let me down!_ he demands of the room, and is immensely satisfied when he hits the ground running. The next door he goes through leads him back (finally!) into the Entrance Chamber, where, on the same thread of logic, he cries, _“Give me an exit!”_

He spins around frantically when one of the doors to his left swings open. No Death Eaters or Order members are forthcoming, however, and when he reaches it he realises he’s back in the black-tiled hallway. The room really did give him an exit.

He slams the door behind him and pelts towards the lift at the end, throwing himself through the waiting grilles and jabbing the _Atrium_ button just as Bellatrix slams the door against the tiles.

“GET BACK HERE!”

Harry finds it in him to grin at her as the lift pulls violently away. It’s not hard to take pleasure in her shaking fury—after all, Remus and Sirius are lying unconscious (not dead, not dead, please not _dead)_ on the floor in front of that arch, Ron’s been hit with something bad, Luna’s been thrown across a room, and who knows how many others are the same way.

The lift jerks and dings before he knows it, and he’s sprinting through the golden gates and out into the silo of an Atrium before Bellatrix can even get to the right level. He passes the fountain, legging it into the tunnel lined with fireplaces, the red telephone box waiting at the end. He comes to a stop in the middle of the corridor, breathing harshly, and turns around.

The echoing clatter of the lift grilles funnels down towards him. Bellatrix runs through, into the Atrium, turns on the spot and disapparates—or tries to, in the least. She instead trips on the hem of her robe and comes stumbling closer. Eyes finally catching on Harry, she looses a howl of fury that has him laughing in her face.

“YOU!” she screams. “DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE?”

“I destroyed the prophecy,” he says, batting away several stunners effortlessly. “I destroyed what Voldemort wants.”

A sharp, searing pain, worse than any before, radiates from his scar. He laughs harder, quickly approaching Lestrange’s own brand of insanity.

“And your Dark Lord knows! He knows it’s _gone!”_

“NO!” She fires curse after curse upon him, but none of them reach. The burning pain grows worse and worse.

“I BROKE IT!” he yells. “I DESTROYED IT! YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BRING BACK TO YOUR MASTER!”

“YOU VILE, HORRIBLE, EVIL LITTLE—”

 _“Crucio!”_ Harry holds his wand steady on her. She screams and flies back, knocked from her feet.

“You’re going to have to do better than _that,_ Potter,” she snarls breathlessly. “First time, is it? You have to _mean them,_ the Unforgivables. You have to want that pain…”

 _“CRUCIO!”_ he shouts again, and she screams and writhes on the floor. It only lasts a few seconds before he feels like retching. His scar is splitting his head in two.

“Are you going to kill me?” she whimpers. “Are you, Potter, going to kill me, for what I did to Black and that beast?”

_You’ve got to mean it, Harry._

A cold whisper, raspy, a familiar voice in his ear. He has to grit his teeth against the pain in his head, twisting his neck in a poor attempt to get away from the voice.

_She killed them… it’s her fault they’re dead… You know the spell._

An icy gust of air races towards Harry’s shoulder before backing off. Harry’s eyes fly wide and he turns, wand raised, but Voldemort merely waves his hand and knocks him to the floor. His wand rolls away, far out of reach. 

Voldemort’s white, lifeless face sneers down at him, his nose a memory, snakelike, and his eyes mere black slits ringed with red.

“So… weak,” he says, as Harry shuffles back on his hands and pushes himself up. “You can’t even protect yourself, least of all your friends… And now, who’s paid the price for that?”

“They’re not _dead!”_ Harry spits.

“Aren’t they, Harry?” Voldemort rasps. “Aren’t they? You’ve seen death… You’ve _been_ death. Tell me, isn’t that what death looks like to you?”

Several grates away, tall green flames roar to life in one of the many fireplaces. They all look up to watch Dumbledore, just as Harry had last seen him that night in his office, step into the Ministry.

“It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Tom,” Dumbledore says into the silence. “The aurors are on their way.”

“By which time,” Voldemort sneers, “I shall be gone, and _you_ shall be dead.”

With a shout, Voldemort levels his wand at Dumbledore and sends a green jet of light flying forth. Dumbledore responds in the same instant, waving a hand that knocks Harry aside without touching him and meeting Voldemort’s spell with his own arc of spitting red light from his wand. The spells connect, and on the other side of them Harry sees Bellatrix let the blast carry her in a slide into the nearest fireplace. The green flames flare and consume her kneeling form, burning her up from toe to head as she disappears, grinning, from view.

The force of the spells sends streams of magic pouring to the floor. Voldemort yells and snaps his wand upwards, trying to force the connection in his favour. Instead their magic lashes out like electricity, like the plasma and the lightning down below in one of those rooms, exploding against the tiles and shattering ceramic over Harry’s head. He cowers, curled against the wall of one of the fireplaces, flinching away from every tile that crashes down by his feet. The air heaves and sizzles with the sheer intensity of the magic, prickling at his skin and setting his nerves on fire.

Finally Voldemort breaks the connection, lashing the stream of their spells upwards and clutching it in his fist as he fashions with it a ball of fire that blows outwards to make a roiling, towering wall between himself and Dumbledore. The wall draws inwards to form a basilisk-sized serpent that hisses and lunges; Harry makes a harsh noise and jerks away on instinct, cracking the back of his skull against the wall.

Voldemort’s laugh crackles through the Atrium and the snake lunges, snapping at Dumbledore. Dumbledore slashes at it with his wand, creating a current of air so strong even Harry is slipping forward. The snake rears and thrashes, but it is no match for Dumbledore, who, as if conducting a symphony, forces it back into a formless wave rushing away towards Voldemort.

Voldemort yells out and the fire disappears, but Dumbledore does not wait for his next move. With a complicated twirl of his wand, all of the water in the fountain rises and gushes around Voldemort, swirling about him and forming two large hippocampi. They rear and snarl, snapping at him with blunt teeth when he tries to blast a hole through their flanks. All the water does is part and regroup before the hippocampi come crashing down on him, rolling into one giant, churning, levitating ball of water.

Harry gets to his feet and stumbles forward as Dumbledore forces the ball containing Voldemort farther around the rim of the fountain. Voldemort thrashes, forcing his arms through its wall again and again until Dumbledore turns to force Harry back again and the water crashes to the floor.

Voldemort rises from the pouring waves and hurls at them an onslaught of what looks to Harry to be pure dark magic. Dumbledore rips his wand through the air in an arc, curving a powerful, glowing blue shield around himself and Harry, once again on the floor. The magic batters against the shield, forcing Dumbledore to push strain against it. Fortunately or not, Voldemort seems to tire of it quickly; he reabsorbs all of his darkness into one luminous ball of power, which he flings into the air with a great yell and detonates the biggest blast of magic Harry’s ever felt.

Dumbledore is flung backwards, falling to the floor feet away from Harry, and all of the glass in the Atrium shatters. The hundreds of windows crawling up the walls of the silo are obliterated with the sheer power of it, and the tinkle and rush of falling glass thunders against Harry’s eardrums. He covers his head with his arms and forces his face to the floor until the hall is quiet once more.

Sliced, bruised and bloody, Harry lifts his head from the floor to see Voldemort stood above them, far away beside the fountain, with his wand held in both hands above his head. Steadily, like Bill’s creeping black crystals, tendrils of glass shards lift themselves from the floor and arch up behind him. They soar over the golden statues, glinting and glimmering like glitter in the weak light. Dumbledore staggers to his feet and thrusts out his wand, calling another shield to wrap around himself and Harry. Voldemort laughs as the glass impacts, sliding through the shield and falling to the other side as nothing but sand. It burns Harry’s skin and stings his eyes, and he can’t help but turn away again until the deluge is over. He doesn’t miss the look of unease that slides across Voldemort’s features, however, before he wraps himself up in a fierce cyclone of sand and vanishes from view.

In the silence left behind, the sand rustles and skitters towards them. A layer runs over Harry’s feet, and his scar pierces through the fog of his thoughts with a pain so intense he thinks—no, he _knows_ that he is dying, if not already dead. Somewhere disconnected, he feels his body collapse over the sharp grit blanketing the floor, writhing until he can feel the cold tile beneath his fingers. Dread seeps over his mind, slips into all of the cracks the lightning strikes of pain leave in him.

_Sirius and Remus are dead._

_Ron will never be the same—ever._

_Tonks might never wake up._

_And it’s all his fault._

A creature he cannot see begins to wind itself around his body, a creature so disgusting it burns cold just to touch it. It constricts around his chest, his throat, his arms. It takes over and settles in his chest, and it _uses him._

“You’ve lost, old man,” says the voice speaking through his mouth. Harry screams with the pain, the horrible, unrelenting pain that wracks his entire body—his _soul._ He hears his mother’s scream, sees Sirius fall before his eyes. He sees Remus throw himself over Harry, he sees Luna flying across a room, Hermione limp in Neville’s arms, Ginny flat on her back on the floor—

“Kill me, Dumbledore,” says Voldemort through Harry’s mouth. “If death is nothing, kill me now… Kill the boy.”

The pain is so intense, so unmanageable and still refusing to kill him that he wants to die, he wants to beg Dumbledore himself to do it, to kill him, to put him out of his misery. 

_Maybe then,_ he thinks, throat welling with hot pain and emotion, _maybe then I could join my parents—my parents, Sirius and Remus._

The tight coil of that disgusting creature twitches and loosens, but fresh memories rise to the surface: dementors in Little Whinging, people whispering relentlessly about him at school. Isolation at Privet Drive and Umbridge’s detentions in her sickening office. Harry screams again and thinks _No! No! All of that is gone!_

He remembers Umbridge being carried off by centaurs.

The creature hisses in warning.

He remembers Remus smiling at the bottom of his aunt and uncle’s stairs, Sirius welcoming him into his house, and the burning begins to lessen. Ron and Hermione are closing in on either side, bracketing him and snarling at anyone who dares speak too loudly of their dislike of him. Ginny is throwing undetectable hexes at idiots in the Great Hall. Someone has their kind, warm hand wrapped around Harry’s as he lies on a bed in the hospital wing, and the creature wrapped around him shrieks. 

He remembers sitting in his place at the crowded dinner table at the Burrow. He remembers running up and down stairs in Grimmauld Place, and hiding beneath his invisibility cloak in the castle. 

He remembers lying on a train in third year, his head in George Weasley’s lap, staring up at the boy he’d soon come to love so completely without even a glance back.

Harry almost tears his throat to shreds as he screams, thrown onto his back and arching up for release from the pain. The creature screams in sympathetic agony, releasing him fully and sprinting away, burned.

When Harry opens his eyes, sand particles are hanging in the air around him like a gauzy barrier. Voldemort leans over him with his wand held limply in his palm, grinning.

“You’re a fool, Harry Potter,” he says, “and you will lose.”

Behind Harry’s head, the hissing of a fireplace has the grin sliding from Voldemort’s face. A second sounds, and then a third, and then more and more until Harry’s sure several dozen people have joined them. Voldemort straightens, glaring at the intruders over Harry’s head. Someone, somewhere, takes a sharp, hissing breath.

The sand barrier swirls and tightens until it obscures Voldemort’s hovering body. It falls away suddenly and he is gone, and Harry finds himself gazing up into the face of Albus Dumbledore kneeling beside him instead.


	16. Fifth Year, XI

_“He’s back.”_

Unsteady footsteps caution through the grit on the floor towards them. Dumbledore runs a thumb over Harry’s temple, soothing him as he helps him to sit up.

“He’s back,” Cornelius Fudge repeats. Harry can see Percy taking in the destruction over his boss’s shoulder. His eyes land on Harry and he rushes forwards, sliding down onto his knees to take him from Dumbledore.

“Harry,” he says, “Harry, are you all right?”

Harry swallows through a sandpaper throat and nods, leaning against his shoulder. Dumbledore gets to his feet to address the Minister.

“If you proceed downstairs to the Department of Mysteries, Minister,” Dumbledore says, approaching calmly, “you will find a number of escaped Death Eaters bound and waiting for you in the Death Chamber. You should count yourself incredibly lucky—honoured, even—that young Mr William Weasley has reinstated your anti-apparition wards for you.”

“Bill,” Percy says on a breath. He turns to Harry, helping him to his shaky feet. “Who else is here?”

Harry opens his mouth, but finds no voice with which to answer him.

“Dumbledore!” Fudge cries. “What are you—I—!”

He looks around himself at his phalanx of red-robed aurors; it could not be clearer to Harry that he’s vacillating violently between shock and the urge to shout, _“Seize him!”_

“Cornelius,” Dumbledore says, and his voice reverberates around the destroyed Atrium. “I am ready to fight your men—and win, again—but a few moments ago you saw the proof with your very own eyes of what I have been trying to tell you for the past year! Lord Voldemort has returned, yet you have blinded yourself with your hatred for me. It is time to see sense!”

Fudge stares around at the cracked fountain, the flood of water and sand, and the shredded banner of his own face clinging limply to the wall. “What _happened?”_

Dumbledore inclines his head. “We will discuss this once Harry is back at school.”

“No,” Harry says, finally finding his voice. It comes out as more of a moan. “No, I’m not—I need—the others—”

“Harry,” Dumbledore says, turning back to him. “You need to go back to Hogwarts. You’ll be safe there.”

 _“No!”_ he says again. He knows he’s probably bruising poor Percy with the way he’s digging his fingers into his arm, but it’s an effort just to stay standing. “I need to—I need to!”

“Let him go, Headmaster,” Percy says softly.

“Harry, please—”

But Harry ignores Dumbledore, throwing himself forward in an unsteady lurch towards the lifts. He can hear Fudge ordering Dawlish and Williamson to go down to the Department (with or without him, he doesn’t care), but no one is following him when he gets into the lift that arrives for him. He slides to the floor, knees curled into his chest, as the lift rattles and sways and tries its best to unseat him. When it slides to a stop in the black tiled corridor, he forces himself to his feet and keeps walking.

The door remains open behind him when he staggers into the Entrance Chamber.

“Take me to the Death Chamber,” he says, and a door in front of him swings open. He crosses the room and hobbles through, surprised at the sight of a dozen paralysed Death Eaters lined up on one of the stone steps below him.

“Harry!” cries Hermione, who comes flying up to embrace him tightly.

“Hermione,” he croaks. “Hermione, are you okay? What about the others? Where is—”

“I’m fine, Harry, and so is Luna,” Hermione tells him, pulling back and turning his face between her hands. He realises his glasses are cracked when her face blurs and refracts strangely, but she taps them absently with her wand and they’re fixed. “Bill’s with Ron… We think he’s going to be okay.”

Harry swallows and nods, barely daring to look past her. He feels emotion burn the backs of his eyes as she takes his hand and leads him carefully down towards the pit. They pass Neville, Ginny and Luna sat together on one of the steps, out of the way, and Draco Malfoy crouched on a rock next to a surly witch with a conspicuous ginger streak in her otherwise brown hair, but he doesn’t spare more than a tight grimace for them; Remus and Sirius are lying side by side on the dais, still as ragdolls, fingers barely inches apart on the stone. Hestia Jones perches beside them, looking worn. Harry clambers precariously onto the dais and crawls up to them, tears dripping down his nose as he lifts a quivering hand to Sirius’ face, finally letting his fingers reach for the underside of his jaw. He’s warm, and something throbs beneath Harry’s hand. Something regular. Something _alive._

He sobs and almost collapses on the spot. It’s then he reaches for Sirius’ hand and sees his blackened fingers—his left forefinger is charred to the topmost knuckle, his left middle finger to the second, and the tip of his ring finger looks quite unhealthy. His right hand is only blackened at the second knuckle of his fourth finger.

“I can only assume these are from brushing the veil,” Ms Jones tells him softly. “I don’t know what will happen to them.”

Harry chokes on another sob and nods his head, trying to clear his watery vision as he turns to Remus. His fingers flutter over his uncle’s neck too, mindful of his old scars and finding comfort in the fact he’s still warm, but he begins to panic when he can’t find a pulse.

“No,” he mutters, grabbing for Remus’ wrist at the same time. “No, no, _Remus…”_

“Mr Potter,” Ms Jones says, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and shaking. “Mr Potter, it’s all right—he’s alive.”

“He is?” Harry whines, looking up at her with what must be a completely broken expression.

“He is,” she confirms, “but his heartbeat is very weak. We’ve called for a healer, but…”

At that moment, Aurors Williamson and Dawlish burst through into the room. Harry frowns up at them as they survey the scene, and is somewhat surprised when they’re shoved unceremoniously aside by none other than Madam Pomfrey, followed by two wizards and witches in green healer’s robes. She descends the steps to the nearest free Order members, snapping orders and calling for information. Ms Jones pats Harry gently on the arm and gets up swiftly to talk to her. Hermione ducks down next to him, her arm sneaking behind his back to hug him close.

“You were incredible, Harry,” she murmurs. Harry barks a short laugh.

“I almost got everyone _killed.”_

“But you didn’t,” she says. “We’re all here. We wouldn’t have come if we didn’t know the risks. Watching you fight… It really was incredible.”

“I barely did anything,” he says, tears still running jaggedly over his cheeks. “I just ran around and made a mess.”

“You faced Bellatrix Lestrange head on,” she reminds him. “We don’t know what happened up there, but you’re here and she isn’t.”

“Voldemort,” Harry spits out. He remembers the icy constriction around his chest, the hatred and fear and hopelessness. He shudders at the phantom sensation of sliminess on his skin that makes him feel the need for at least five showers before he might consider himself clean again.

“Voldemort was what happened. Dumbledore fought him.”

Hermione swallows and nods and keeps stroking his side as he cries into her neck.

######  _\- x -_

When Dumbledore finally manages to persuade Harry to take his portkey, once he’s watched Madam Pomfrey frown over Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Ron—oh god, _Ron_ —and have them sent off to be healed, Harry collapses to the floor of the Headmaster’s office and doesn’t get up for a long, long time. He can hear the portraits rustling above him, can hear them muttering—he ignores Phineas Nigellus and his irritating indifference—but doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

The floor is solid at his back. It stretches him in an unusual way, makes his spine click and has him aware of the painful tension clinging to muscles that had been sacrificed to fear and desperation. He’s managed to rest his head on one of the rugs, and only the memory of shattered glass and George’s dripping blood prompts him to actually look around.

The room is as perfect as it was before the Minister’s visit several weeks ago. Not a single trinket is out of place, not a single pane of glass bears any scratch or sign of its previous destruction. He wonders if Dumbledore has returned since to right it all.

After what feels like hours, the flames in the Headmaster’s fireplace roar to life, throwing flickering green light over his prone silhouette. For the second time that evening, Harry watches Dumbledore step dramatically out of a fireplace—this time to thunderous, painted applause.

“Are you all right, Harry?” is his first question, in that soft, kind tone Harry thinks should be reserved for first-years and first-years only.

“Fine,” he manages from between cracked, dried lips. He shifts an arm outwards across the floor, as if to push himself into sitting, but quickly gives up.

“There’s no need to move for me, Harry,” Dumbledore says, shuffling on silent feet towards the chair beside his desk and lowering himself onto it. “Sometimes I find a new perspective is all I need to lead me to the answers I’m looking for.”

Harry grunts but otherwise doesn’t reply.

“I thought you might be pleased to know that none of your fellow students will suffer any lasting effects from the night’s trials.”

Harry swallows. “Good.”

“Madam Pomfrey is currently patching everybody up. Sirius will be fully healthy when he wakes, though I have been warned to tell you his hands will not make a recovery. Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin have been moved to St Mungo’s… While Ms Tonks will be up and about soon, I’m afraid Mr Lupin has merely been stabilised for the time being.”

Harry swallows again, and this time he’s choking back tears. Outside the tall, cross-hatched windows, the horizon grows paler and paler.

“I know how you’re feeling, Harry.”

“No you don’t.”

It’s abrupt and it’s reedy and it’s threaded through with utter horror, but it’s the most coherent thing Harry’s said in hours.

“You see, Dumbledore?” sighs Phineas Nigellus. “Never try to understand the students. They hate it when you do that, think you’re telling them they aren’t as special and central to the universe as they believe. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood and wallow in their self pity.”

“That’s enough, Phineas,” Dumbledore says softly.

The room is quiet for a long time. Harry remains on the floor, one knee cocked and wavering still with exhaustion.

“It’s my fault,” he says eventually. It’s barely above a whisper. “If I’d waited… If I’d listened to Hermione…” 

“No, Harry,” Dumbledore says, and Harry snaps his irritated gaze his way, “and you are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. You see, everything—everything that transpired tonight—was my fault almost entirely… I would not be so arrogant as to presume responsibility for the whole.”

Harry snorts so hard he takes several layers off the back of his throat. “You weren’t even there.”

“Precisely,” is the response. “Sirius is a brave, clever, and energetic man, always up for a challenge; such people do not usually take kindly to being ordered to sit around at home while they believe others to be in danger. On par with this, you should never, for one moment, have been led to believe that you needed to be in the Department of Mysteries tonight. If I had been open with you, Harry, about everything as I should have been, I am certain this could have been well avoided. You would have known, from the beginning, that Voldemort was likely to want to lure you into the Hall of Prophecy. The blame there lies entirely with myself.”

Harry lies silently on the floor while Dumbledore explains everything. He doesn’t bother to respond as he rehashes all the things Harry already knows—Harry wishes he’d just get to the point already, though, and frequently.

“So what happens to me now?” he asks, after all is left to hang in the air above him. After he’s let his fury with Kreacher (and, in the back of his mind, everyone’s dismissal of Hermione’s warnings) sizzle and seep through the cracks of his thoughts. His voice rasps against his throat.

“Where am I going, after this? Back to the Dursleys’?”

And then he learns that Dumbledore had known all along. He’d known exactly how his life with Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley would play out, and he’d put him there anyway. Fuck the blood wards, he’d condemned Harry to a life of suffering from practically day one. Hell, Harry would bet he’d let the Ministry throw Sirius in Azkaban, maybe he’d even approved of it. But it doesn’t seem to matter how angry Harry grows, how frustrated and pathetically useless he feels, he cannot for the life of him dredge up more energy than it takes to let his leg flop back down to the floorboards and sob loudly and messily up at the high, pointed ceiling.

Because he’s being used. Harry is neither too stupid not to realise the fact, nor is he naive enough to brush the thought away. He’s being used as a pawn in this man’s war against another because of nothing more than circumstance—perceived fate—and as with everything in his life so far, it just simply isn’t fair. 

He laughs outright when Dumbledore tries to tell him he _cares._

“I smashed it,” he says. “I smashed the prophecy on the rock when Bellatrix took down Sirius and Remus. No one got to hear it.”

Dumbledore eventually retrieves a memory for the pensive he sits in the middle of the room. Harry still does not move from his spot on the floor, even though he’s lost all feeling in most of his body. The spectral, unsettling form of Professor Trelawney rises from the surface of the pensive at Dumbledore’s command, and begins to speak.

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches;_

_“Born to those who have thrice defied him,_

_“Born as the seventh month dies,_

_“And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not,_

_“And either must die at the hand of the other,_

_“For neither can live while the other survives._

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”_

“It means me,” Harry surmises.

Dumbledore inclines his head. 

“But the funny thing, Harry, is that when the prophecy was made, it did not necessarily mean you at all.”

Brilliant. So, was it his Potter luck that had landed him in it once again? 

_Honestly,_ he thinks to himself, _it’s hardly unlikely._

“‘Neither can live,’” he repeats, more steadily than he has all morning, “‘while the other survives.’ That… that means one of us is going to have to kill the other, in the end. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says simply. 

It feels as though, with that one word, Harry’s entire fate has been sealed.

######  _\- x -_

Somehow it seems that, even at ridiculous o’clock in the morning, half the school is up and about to bear witness to Harry’s long traipse up to the hospital wing. He’s exhausted and he knows he looks like shit, covered in blood and dirt and Merlin only knows what else, and whispers are flying like wildfire before he can reach the infirmary doors.

Madam Pomfrey drags him aside and layers him with a number of spells—diagnostics, he wearily assumes—before healing his cuts and pronouncing him fit. When he pulls back the curtains she’s set up partway down the dormitory he finds all of his friends, plus a few Weasleys, and Malfoy, waiting for him.

“Harry!” cry Mrs Weasley, Fred, George, Ginny and Neville. Hermione doesn’t even bother wasting breath, leaping from her chair and flinging herself into Harry’s arms. Harry holds her tightly and hides his relief and teariness in her hair.

“Hi,” he croaks. “How’s everyone…?”

When Hermione lets him go, Mrs Weasley bustles in to take her place. Her eyes are red-rimmed and watery, and she checks him all over before squeezing him tightly.

“Goodness,” she mutters, “Ginny, my boys, all running off into trouble at the first sign of danger…”

Harry swallows thickly, returning her hug as best he can. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Weasley.”

She shakes her head and runs her hand over his cheek again before pulling him farther into the room. Fred hugs him next, which is a surprise, but then he winks and steps back for George to nearly knock Harry off his feet.

Harry wraps his arms tightly around George’s middle, acutely aware that he won’t be able to linger. George squeezes him again and presses his lips just above his ear, whispering, “God I’ve missed you, you reckless bloody idiot.”

“Missed you too,” Harry replies, pulling back shakily and grinning up at each of them.

“You didn’t have to go battling Death Eaters just to get us back here, you know,” Fred jokes.

“Dad’s stuck doing damage control with Bill and Percy at the Ministry,” Ginny says, and Harry blinks out of his lovesick daze to look around him. She’s perched, smiling, at the foot of Luna’s bed; Luna doesn’t seem to mind, seeing as she’s splayed spark-out on the pillows and is possibly drooling into her slightly tangled blonde hair. Neville’s sat next to her in a visitor’s chair, nose back to normal and a hell of a lot less bloody, and Harry happily returns his little wave. Ron’s snoring in the bed opposite, which is a good sign, though both of his freckled arms and his whole upper body are wrapped tightly in bandages. His mother has returned to her seat beside him, clutching his hand, and there are three other seats abandoned around him. Malfoy is swinging his legs from the side of the last bed, glaring sullenly at the floor.

“Mr Weasley will be fine, I assure you,” Madam Pomfrey says, flitting past Harry to cast another set of diagnostics over Ron. She nods and cancels her spells after a moment, smiling comfortingly at Mrs Weasley. “Bed rest for now, and I shall see to his treatment when he wakes.”

“Thank you, Poppy,” Mrs Weasley says, gazing down at her sleeping son.

Harry feels fingers curl around the ends of his and almost jumps. George smiles softly down at him and tugs him over to sit down between himself and Hermione, who summons him a chair from an unoccupied bedside. Harry, as reluctant as he is to lose George’s warmth, lets their fingers drop between the chairs.

“Remus, Tonks and Sirius have all been taken to St Mungo’s,” Hermione says, picking up Harry’s other hand and gently rubbing her thumb in circles over his palm. “Madam Pomfrey said… Well…”

“Dumbledore told me,” Harry says. “He said Tonks is going to be okay, but Remus…”

“We don’t know enough yet to say anything for certain,” she tells him firmly. “He was hit with a lot of spells that might have woven together and made something a bit more dangerous. They said… I heard that they were going to keep him asleep for a while.”

Harry nods. He stares unseeingly down at their hands and almost collapses sideways when he feels George scoot his chair closer and sling an arm around his shoulders. He clings to both of them, looking up at brilliant, brave, _wonderful_ Ron and hating everything just that bit more. It’s his fault, and he knows it, but now he also knows that it’s all been part of some elaborate fucking _plan,_ and that his life had been decided possibly before he’d even been born.

And now he’s brought all of these people into it, and they don’t deserve this pain.

So he clings to the comfort Hermione and George lend him, and he cries. Silently, gently, but wholeheartedly.

######  _\- x -_

It’s only when Snape corners him after a lifeless morning of end-of-term Potions that he really lets his anger take control of his mouth.

“DON’T YOU _DARE_ TALK ABOUT REMUS!” he shouts, glad that he’d closed the dungeon door before Snape had started in on cursing his recklessness and foolishness. “YOU’RE THE REASON THE ENTIRE WORLD HATES HIM! DON’T THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE!”

Snape stands stock still, glaring at him furiously down his nose in the middle of the room.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Harry continues, quivering with fury. “You ruined his life when you told all those Slytherins his secret. Those laws… Those laws have _ruined_ his life—and the lives of however many others—and you’re still not done? You can rail on me all you like! Call me whatever, tell me I’m worthless—I don’t give a single shit, honestly! But don’t you _dare_ talk about Remus like that! Not now that he’s—now he’s—!” He hiccoughs loudly, unable to get the thought of Remus lying still in a coma on his hospital bed out of mind. _“Not when it’s your fault!”_

“Call it recompense for not announcing it to the school the night your stupid godfather tried to use him to kill me!” Snape snaps, and it’s the closest Harry’s ever heard him to shouting, even after their unconventional arrival in second year. He staggers backwards, knocking his hip into one of the desks and gaping.

“Sirius did…” he says. “What do you…?”

Snape storms to his desk, mouth twisted in a way that makes Harry think he’d never meant to open it and blurt it all out. But then he stops, fingers pressed white against its surface, and begins to talk. He tells Harry things he thinks he’d rather not have known, after all, and things that make him want to throttle the man in front of him all the more.

“They were stupid children,” Snape spits at the end of it. “Sometimes it’s still difficult to remember they ever grew up.”

Harry turns on his heel and stalks wordlessly from the room. He lets the door slam behind him and breaks into a run, running and running until he makes it to the nearest bathroom and can slam the door of the nearest stall too. He drops his head heavily against it and wills himself not to cry.

Not again.

He’s done so much of it lately.

######  _\- x -_

On Tuesday evening, Harry knocks sharply on his office door. When Snape opens it, before he can even open his mouth to ask, Harry beats him to it.

“What was she like?” he asks. His burning stare is fixed to the floor at Snape’s feet.

“My mother. What was she like?”

######  _\- x -_

Sitting next to him, propped up on the pillows and half draped over his shoulder, Harry passes Ron another chocolate frog from the bedside table. Ron grins and rips into the box enthusiastically, glancing at the card before pushing it into Harry’s hands.

“Newt Scamander,” he says. “I’ve got loads of him. Seems to be one of the only interesting Hufflepuffs out there.”

“That’s a bit rude,” Hermione says, frowning from her sprawl over his feet. “There are plenty of Hufflepuffs who’ve done impressive things.”

Harry smiles down at the little card and the curious, slightly nervous man peering out of his portrait. He disappears after a moment, and seems to be trailed by a number of insect-like creatures Harry’s sure he should probably recognise from class. He puts the card down and readjusts the pillows Ron’s let him borrow to cushion the cold steel bed frame. At the far end of the infirmary, they hear the characteristic blaze of the floo through Madam Pomfrey’s open office door.

“Messrs Weasley!” she cries. “I’d like to remind you that this is a school, not St Mungo’s! You can’t just come and go whenever you please!”

“Our sincerest apologies, Ma’am,” says one voice.

“We promise we’ll ask next time,” says another.

“They’re here early,” Ginny says, looking down at her watch with mild interest as she takes a bite out of a slice of tart stolen from the dinner table.

“Evening, Ronniekins!” greets Fred, appearing around Ron’s curtain and grinning at the stack of empty sweet boxes on the sheets. 

“We brought some more entertainment,” George says, chucking Ginny a neon green pack of cards.

“Just be careful they don’t bite your fingers off, yeah?” Fred continues, pulling up a chair and kicking his feet up next to Hermione. She swats at him with her newspaper.

“Don’t you two have a shop to run or something?” Ron grumbles, catching the pack of cards when Ginny throws it to him.

“We do close up in the evenings, you know,” George says with some amusement, kicking a chair over next to Harry and flopping down in it. He picks up Harry’s hand and links their fingers together easily. “I still can’t believe you sacrificed poor old Ron just to get us to visit, you devious creature.”

“It was a tough decision,” Harry says, snickering quietly at Ron’s derision, “but someone had to make it.”

Fred snorts. “Anyway, how’s it going in school, kiddos? Not too boring without us still?”

“Everything’s gone back to normal,” Ginny pouts. “Soon as Umbridge was gone, no one seemed to feel the need to kick up a fuss. Flitwick got rid of your swamp in about three seconds, though, but he’s left this tiny corner roped off—”

“He has?” George asks excitedly.

“I always knew he liked us really,” Fred grins.

She shrugs, smug. “He just says it’s a good bit of magic.”

“Why on earth would he do that?” Hermione mutters.

“I think he’s left it as some sort of monument to you both,” Ron says. Harry laughs and squeezes George’s fingers just because he can. 

“Either that, or the retaliation against Umbridge’s reign of terror.”

Fred sighs. “Well, I’m still bloody furious about her torturing you with that blood quill.”

“Yeah, well…”

Ginny tilts her head across from them. “I’m not sure you quite understand, Harry.”

“What d’you mean?” he asks. “What is there to understand?”

“Well, blood magic’s one of the strongest and most elemental forms of magic,” Ron says, now chewing slowly through a jelly slug. “It’s used for rituals and stuff, right? It’s why all the pureblood twats go bloody mad over it—no pun intended. And what Dumbledore told you about your mum…”

Yeah, that had been a fun conversation to relay to this lot.

“Well, blood quills weren’t made with the intention of any sort of injury,” Fred says. “They were used for things like written confessions, oaths, signing important documents, the like. The idea was finding a way so that you wouldn’t quite have to slice your hand open to put your magic into the parchment; it was much more efficient all round.”

“So, really, what we’re so angry about is what she did to you with it,” George says darkly. He reaches over to take Harry’s left hand as well, running a finger over the scars left behind. “Even writing it out once or twice should have been enough, but Merlin knows how much she made you write…”

“What they’re trying to say, Harry,” Ginny sighs, “is that you were incredibly lucky you didn’t suffer any magical repercussions when lying to Umbridge.”

Harry gapes at her, and then at Ron, Fred and George. Hermione has stopped reading her paper and is frowning even harder now, gazing off down the dormitory as the gears turn in her mind.

“The worst part,” Ron says, “is that Umbridge had you write all that and still refused to see that you were telling the truth about You-Know-Who. A lie like that could have done some serious damage, and the fact that she just ignored it…”

“So you’re telling me that if I lie I’m going to get some sort of magical backlash?” Harry asks faintly. 

“Only to Umbridge,” George clarifies, gripping both of his hands between his and looking up at him intently. “And if we have anything to say about it, you’ll never have to say another word to her face again.”

“You’re bloomin’ lucky you had Hermione to cover for you in her office!” Fred says. “Ron’s told us all about your performance, by the way, very impressive.”

Hermione breaks out of her daze briefly to flash him a dangerous sort of smile.

“So I can’t lie to Umbridge,” Harry mumbles.

“Unfortunately, that’s what it sounds like,” Hermione sighs. “Still, it doesn’t seem like she’s going to be saying anything to anyone anytime soon.”

All six of them peer down the rows of beds to where Umbridge’s dirty, swollen, pink-stockinged feet are peeking out from behind a curtain. Harry knows that no one knows what happened to her, or how exactly Dumbledore saved her from the forest (and single-handedly at that), but he does know that she hasn’t responded to a single word they’ve said about her since her arrival in the hospital wing.

“Almost,” Ron whispers conspiratorially. “She shows signs of life if you do this.”

He opens his mouth and makes loud, low, clip-clopping noises with his tongue. Umbridge sits bolt upright in her bed, hair flying as she looks around in terror.

“Something wrong, Professor?” asks Madam Pomfrey.

“…No,” Umbridge replies after a moment, her voice high and reedy. The six a few beds down from her giggle and snicker into their hands.

######  _\- x -_

When Harry is next summoned to Dumbledore’s office, to say it’s unexpected is neither here nor there.

“Come on, then,” he says, heaving himself up from behind his desk and collecting his notes.

“Sorry?” Hermione asks, looking at him oddly.

“Come with me?” Harry pleads. Hermione looks up at Professor McGonagall, who gives her the barest hint of a smile as she continues her lecture seamlessly, before shaking her head and collecting her things to follow. 

“Harry,” she says, as they’re making their leisurely way through the halls, “I’m not sure Dumbledore would want me there…”

“Hermione, I don’t really give a damn what Dumbledore wants right now,” he sighs. “I’m just going to tell you all everything he says anyway, and I really don’t see the harm in you being there yourself. After everything he’s just told me, I don’t think he’s in any sort of position to make any more demands of me.”

She gives him a considering, ‘fair enough’ sort of expression and loops her arm through his. What neither of them had expected, however, as they step through the door of his office, is the uncomfortable, shifty-looking Minister for Magic waiting for them with Dumbledore, clutching his bowler hat to his chest where he stands beside the large oaken desk.

“Minister,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows and settling himself against the edge of a table.

“Mister Potter,” says Fudge, not meeting his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Harry, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore says, inclining his head in greeting. “I’m sorry for interrupting your lesson time, but I thought this to be a more prudent matter to see to.”

Harry looks from him to Fudge and back again, before motioning them to continue.

“Cornelius here, on behalf of the Ministry, would like to offer you compensation for the offenses committed against you under his office.”

Hermione scoffs loudly, balking at Fudge as if he’d just asked her to turn her wand on herself. “Compensation?” she says. _“Compensation?_ After everything that Umbridge woman has put him through alone? I think he deserves more in _compensation_ than a pathetic couple of galleons!”

“W-Well!” Fudge splutters, face turning red under her scrutiny. “Miss… Granger, was it? I think Potter can very well speak for himself!”

“I have no use for money,” Harry says calmly. Fudge splutters again, mouth puckering and contorting as if chewing on a lemon. “I think Hermione’s right, and there is one thing you can do for me.”

“Well—go on then, I suppose!”

Harry folds his arms over his chest as he looks Fudge up and down. 

“I want you to publicly clear my godfather’s name of all charges.”

The office hangs in tense silence while Fudge asphyxiates on his own pride. He looks from Dumbledore, who is eyeing Harry with some mix of curiosity and satisfaction, back to Harry, and even a furtive glance at Hermione’s fierce stance.

“Sirius Black is a known criminal, Mr Potter!” he manages, eventually. “We cannot let his crimes fall by the wayside—!”

“Sirius Black is innocent, Minister,” Harry says impatiently, “and I _know_ you know he fought on our side in the Department of Mysteries—I’m not stupid. I trust you remember the account I gave you two years ago, when he ‘escaped’ Hogwarts?” Fudge nods, furious and near crushing his hat between his fists, and Harry continues. “Well, I’d advise you to consider it the truth from here on in. I’ll give you memories, I’ll testify, I’ll do whatever you need me to do to get it done, but _I—want—it—done._ Yes?”

Fudge, now approaching an impressive shade of violet, shuts his mouth with an audible click and trembles where he stands. He nods once, apparently rendered speechless, and doesn’t make any further comments.

“I would like to applaud you once again, Harry, Miss Granger, for the indispensable work you and Mr Weasley have done for this school,” Dumbledore says. Harry thinks of the points Professor McGonagall had added to their empty hourglasses with venomous vengeance right under Snape’s nose the moment she’d stepped into the Entrance Hall. Even the memory brings a smirk to his lips.

“It wasn’t only us,” Hermione says waspishly. “Ginny, Neville, Luna and everyone else played a big part. Even… Even Malfoy, I suppose.”

“Of course, Miss Granger,” he acquiesces. “I shall see that they receive the same recognition. For now, I suggest you head back to class. You can leave it to us to deal with any further consequences.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione says. She nods and links her arm through Harry’s again, rolling her eyes when she notices he’s still smirking at Fudge.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” she replies, failing to smother a laugh. “Let’s go.”

“Oh!” Harry says when they reach the door, turning back to Fudge one last time. “I’d also like mine and the Weasleys’ quidditch ban to be lifted sometime soon, if you will. Thanks!” 

And with that, he and Hermione slam the door behind them and step onto the rotating staircase, fully intending on going straight to Ron in the hospital wing.

######  _\- x -_

_AZKABAN ESCAPEE SIRIUS BLACK TO BE FOUND INNOCENT FIFTEEN YEARS LATER:_

_PETTIGREW ALIVE AND AT LARGE_

_Sirius Orion Black, accused of the murder of former friend and unregistered animagus Peter Pettigrew, alongisde a number of other individuals, has this week been proven to have been completely innocent the entire time. It has been brought to the notice of the Daily Prophet that Black was imprisoned in maximum security Azkaban Prison with no formal trial or indictment, no representation in court, and not one chance to plead innocent. Godfather and legal guardian of the renowned ‘Boy-Who-Lived’, Harry James Potter, Black has now been formally tried and acquitted of all charges, and is a free man once again._

_So, you may ask, what does this mean for our nation’s judicial system? “Surely, someone should be made to take the fall!” is the current claim of the public, and understandably so…_

“Harry! Harry, this is wonderful!” Hermione cries at breakfast, waving the paper over her head in celebration. 

“Hold on, ’Ermione!” says Ron, shielding himself from a battering to the head. “Let the poor bloke see it before you hit him in the face with it!”

Thick, pinkish, ropey scars twine themselves down Ron’s arms beneath his t-shirt. He doesn’t appear to care much for them, not having bothered to cover them up once since Madam Pomfrey released him from the hospital wing two days ago. Instead, he grins and shakes his head whenever someone makes noises as if to ask him what happened, which is the only tell Harry has that leads him to think that his injury was actually a lot more painful than he’s been letting on.

Regardless, he picks up an abandoned Prophet from the table and pushes it into Harry’s hands. Harry scans through the article, grinning like mad, and chances a look up at the head table. Dumbledore catches his eye first, as annoying as it is, and gives him a quiet, soft smile. Professor McGonagall is also covertly watching him, and nods proudly when he grins up at her.

“Congratulations, Harry!” Neville says, crunching happily into his toast beside Ginny. “I didn’t know he was your godfather. It must have been awful hearing all those lies about him.”

“It’s all right now, isn’t it?” Harry says, taking the jam Ron passes him. “He can go free again, without anyone screaming bloody murder.”

They spend the rest of the day sitting down by the lake, toes buried in the sun-warmed sandy dirt and throwing pebbles for the giant squid to catch. 

“Charlie says he used to feed it cereal,” Ron says absently, gazing out at where Luna and Ginny are splashing around in the shallows. “Dunno if it actually liked that.”

“Can’t say I’d think of cereal when looking for good squid food,” Harry admits. He digs through the grit to unearth a particularly nice-looking stone before lobbing it high into the air.

“Oi, Potter!” someone annoyingly recognisable shouts behind them. Harry sighs heavily and twists around to watch Malfoy come swaggering down to the lakeside. Behind him trails a very bored looking Theodore Nott, who brightens slightly when he sees Neville and waves.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry calls back.

“I want to know why the hell the Headmaster thinks he can just stop me going back to the manor and send me to stay with your Gryffindor bloody relations!”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want you murdered by your own father when he wheedles his way out of Azkaban,” Hermione says coolly, not bothering to get down from the tree she’s lounging in above them. Malfoy looks up in mild surprise before bristling.

“It’s none of your business what goes on in my home—”

“You seem to be under the impression that we had anything to do with Professor Dumbledore’s decisions,” Harry says, standing and brushing his hands off on his jeans. “In actual fact, I don’t think we could care less about what happens to you, not after the hell you’ve given us.”

Ron pushes himself to his feet beside him, hands shoved in his pockets as he towers intimidatingly. He takes one look at Malfoy and turns to Nott instead, who sighs in commiseration.

“What do you mean, _the hell I’ve given you?”_ Malfoy scoffs. “Might I remind you that I'm not one of your Death Eater enemies to name drop in the morning paper? You and your boyfriend broke my ribs _and_ my nose when you jumped me on the pitch! Granger bruised me for weeks back in third year… Is that not enough payback for you, Potter?”

Without even the slightest warning, Ron spins back around on the spot and absolutely bloody decks him. There’s an audible crunch where his fist connects with Malfoy’s nose.

 _“FUCK,_ WEASLEY!” Malfoy shouts, hands flying to his face as he bends double in pain.

“Now we might be closer to even,” Ron says, looking completely unbothered.

“Nice one, Ron!” Ginny cheers, splashing towards them and soaking the bottoms of her shorts in her haste. Luna follows, watching the scene curiously.

“Fucking, _fuck,”_ Malfoy wheezes. Nott stands bored at his side, examining his nails in the sun.

Having retrieved her wand from her bag, Luna steps up to Malfoy and pulls his hands gently from his face. Blood drips to the grass and gleams on his hands and face, covering him quite alarmingly.

“Does it hurt?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he grumbles. Well, anyone would think that obvious, really.

 _“Episkey!”_ she says, and the uneven, broken bone snaps back into place with another crunch.

 _“Jesus Christ!”_ Malfoy shouts again. “God _damnit,_ that hurt!”

“Maybe you’ll think next time before you open your mouth,” says Nott. Ron grins and holds his fist out towards him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Nott knocks his own against it. Ron grins even wider.

“Thank you, Lovegood,” Malfoy says. 

“That’s all right,” Luna says, tucking her wand back behind her ear. “Do try to be nice now, won’t you?”

Malfoy works his jaw as he flaps his hands to dry the blood, but mutters a quick, unconvincing, “Fine.”

“And here I thought Malfoy would be the _last_ person here to tolerate Luna,” Harry says under his breath.

“Huh?” Ron says. “Oh, yeah. They’re actually cousins. Not close, mind, but not as distant from him as we are—or you, for that matter. And, well… You know how he is about family and all that.”

Harry pushes out his bottom lip as he considers it. “Yeah, I suppose. Or maybe he’s secretly not quite such a prejudiced bitch.”

Ron looks at him. Harry looks back, keeping his face as straight as he can until he realises they’re both struggling and bursts into laughter.

“Yeah, not bloody likely!”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s _reformed_ now!” 

Malfoy’s narrow-eyed growling only serves to make them laugh harder, but laughter, any laughter, is pretty damn good after the year they’ve just had.

######  _\- x -_

Harry is not ashamed to say there’s a lot of emotion at the seventh years’ leaving party. Numerous DA members come up to him to say thank you and shake his hand. He returns each with honest gratitude and a hint of embarrassment, only made worse when Cedric chaser-tackles him from behind to hug him. Cho laughs along with the onlookers with tears in her eyes and hugs the both of them, even though neither she nor Harry are leaving.

Poor Katie is in floods over in the Gryffindor corner. Her friend Leanne, Ginny and Ron are all trying to console her while Alicia and Angelina are saying goodbye to everyone else, and still she throws herself into Alicia’s arms the moment she’s free.

“Bleedin’ hell, Katie-Cat, it’s not like we’re disappearing off the face of the Earth!” Harry hears her mutter while she strokes her fingers through Katie’s hair.

“All right, team!” Angelina calls, leaping up onto a table and waving for their attention. “Yes, that includes you Potter. I was only really captain for this year, seeing as last year was a dud, but I want to say how proud I am of every single one of you. Despite our setbacks and struggles we still made it through, and all of you have shown significant dedication to improvement throughout the year. I’m sure if Fred and George were here this would be a lot more of an entertaining speech, but we all have to leave Hogwarts at some point. I want you lot remaining to continue all your hard work and build a team Ollie and I will be proud of! 

“We decided, Alicia, the twins and I, who should be the next team captain, and we’re all confident you’ll be able to corral everyone into leading Gryffindor to victory. We won’t be telling any of you who it is, though, so don’t bother asking!” She looks to Alicia. “Anything you wanted to add?”

“It’s been an honour lads,” Alicia says, snapping her hand to her forehead in a teasing salute. “Remember us when you crush everyone else next year.”

“We’re not dead,” Angelina mutters. Beside Harry, Katie has devolved into hysterical giggles amongst the tears. He feels sorry for her, but he’d also be lying if he said the backs of his own eyes weren’t stinging something awful.

“We’ll get together soon!” Ginny insists, eyes also shining. “We can—we’ll get our brothers to bring you over to play on our pitch!”

“Wicked,” Alicia grins. She leans out and taps Ginny on the head with her rolled certificate. “We’ll miss you, kiddos.”

“Go scare the Catapults into shape!” Harry shouts.

“You make it sound like I’m coaching!” Angelina replies.

“Do you think you’ll be able to stop yourself?” Alicia snickers.

“God damn you all.”

“You love us!”

“Miss Johnson,” says Professor McGonagall, who has managed to sneak up behind Harry.

“Yes Ma’am!” Angelina says. McGonagall smiles the way she did when they said an equally teary goodbye to Wood.

“Well done. You and Miss Spinnet have my best wishes for the future. Do extend that to the Weasleys when you see them.”

“Thank you, Professor!” Alicia says, and now even she’s gone a bit wobbly. Lee slopes an arm around her shoulders and lets her lean on him as she tries to hide her sniffles.

“And Mr Jordan,” Professor McGonagall continues. He looks up at her expectantly. “I think we shall all miss your bright personality, on the pitch or otherwise.”

“Thank you Ma’am!” he replies, grinning broadly.

Angelina finally caves and steps back down to the floor to gather Katie and Ginny into a hug. Alicia jumps in, half-dragging Lee with her, who reaches out and snags the sleeve of Harry’s robes. Harry grabs onto Ron who grabs onto Sloper who grabs onto Kirke, and that’s how the whole lot of them end up in one big, cackling pile on the floor of the Great Hall.

######  _\- x -_

The trip back on the Hogwarts Express is an interesting one, to say the least. Harry finds out fairly quickly that Crabbe and Goyle are indeed sharp enough of wit to take the initiative even without Malfoy as their ringleader, only they make the mistake of staging their offence in plain view of a carriage full of DA members—not that those are particularly few and far between.

Once Ernie, Hannah, Susan, Justin, Anthony and Terry have taken their pleasure in practising the wide variety of hexes and jinxes Harry has taught them on live subjects, the two Slytherins resemble little other than a pair of rather catatonic humanoid tree trunks.

“I wonder where Malfoy is?” Ernie says as he helps Harry shove Goyle up into the luggage rack. “I’d quite like to have had him join them.”

“Oh, he has to play nice now,” Harry sighs. “He’s decided he’s on our side. I guess Voldemort isn’t all that appealing when he doesn’t really give a damn who he’s torturing for his information.”

“I suppose not,” Justin snorts. “Have a good summer, all right?”

“You too,” he says, but his smile is wry as he makes his way down to his friends’ compartment. 

“But I thought you were dating Michael Corner?” Ron is saying when he rolls back the door.

“I was,” Ginny says, with some distaste. “He decided he didn’t like it when we dragged Ravenclaw through the dirt that last match, so I dropped him and went to comfort Cho instead.”

“But I thought she was with Cedric!” Harry splutters, feeling very thrown.

Ginny looks at him and bursts out laughing, almost dropping her Quibbler. “I didn’t mean it like that!” she squawks. “She’s still very much with Cedric. Though, I have to say I wouldn’t mind…”

“Ugh,” Ron grimaces, flapping his hands about in front of him, “I really do not want to know.”

Harry glances at Hermione, who, though hiding in her newspaper, is very conspicuously staring straight ahead at the same few words. She flicks her eyes up to meet his smirk and flusters, ruffling the pages and pulling them up to hide herself completely. Luna smiles daintily and continues talking to Neville about his Mimbulus mimbletonia, which has grown considerably over the last few months and Harry thinks may be threatening to take over the dorm next year.

When the train, all too soon, begins to slow as it enters London proper, Harry is torn between the chance to see Mr and Mrs Weasley again and the knowledge that he still has to go back to the Dursleys for at least some of the summer. Still, he jumps up to help Ron haul Hedwig and Pigwidgeon’s cages down from the luggage rack and kick their trunks down the corridor and out onto the platform.

Once they slip through the barrier and into the other half of the station, he realises they’ve had a surprise waiting for him all along.

“SIRIUS!” he shouts, abandoning his stuff immediately in order to run to his godfather. Sirius laughs loudly and gathers him up in his arms, using Harry’s own momentum to pick him up off his feet and swing him round.

“Harry!” he says. “It’s so good to see you!”

“I didn’t know you were out of the hospital!” Harry says, feet firmly back on the floor. “I didn’t think I’d see you for ages!”

“They released me this morning, and Molly no longer has any reason to stop me coming with the rest of them any more,” Sirius tells him, grinning cheekily and looking an awful lot better than he has in a long time, except… 

“Your hands!” Harry says, gazing down at the stubby remnants of the fingers that had been black and withering back in the Department of Mysteries.

“Ah, yes, these…” Sirius sighs. “They said the magic was too strong… Death magic, you see. They can’t regrow them. They don’t hurt though, so don’t you worry.” He lifts one of those mangled hands to ruffle Harry’s hair and clap him on the shoulder.

“Harry!” calls Mrs Weasley, and Harry finally looks around long enough to take in the scene around him; behind Sirius is Harry’s very own welcoming party, one he hadn’t expected in the least. Mad-Eye Moody stands a little ways back, sinister and glaring with his bowler hat pulled over his magical eye. Beside him is Tonks, grinning and artfully rough in heavily patched jeans, a large purple Weird Sisters t-shirt, and an eyepatch as bright pink as her hair. Just at their side, beside Hermione’s worried-looking parents, are Mr and Mrs Weasley in their muggle best, Bill, looking quite confidently cool as ever, and Fred and George, decked out in some eye sores of lurid, scaly green jackets. They grin over at him as Mrs Weasley fusses around Ginny and Ron and finally wraps Harry up in his own hug.

“Give it a rest, Mum,” Bill says. “They’re all all right—you know Madam Pomfrey’s one of the best.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose,” Mrs Weasley says, finally releasing Harry and Ron. Harry sends him a grateful smile before turning bodily towards the twins.

“You look ridiculous,” he tells them bluntly, fists balanced on his hips.

“Do you like it?” George asks. 

He grins.

“Absolutely.”

Fred laughs and knocks him in the shoulder, stepping away to argue with Ron while George hugs Harry tightly.

“We’ll come and rescue you during the holidays, all right?” he says quietly. “We’re not leaving you stuck with that lot, blood wards or no.”

Harry pulls back and looks over to where he’s jabbed his thumb, almost snorting himself hoarse with muffled laughter when he sees the Dursleys hovering uncertainly almost twenty feet away, watching their group with utter contempt and mistrust. 

“What are you all doing here?” Harry asks Tonks and Moody when he’s finally released by the innumerous Weasleys. “What happened to your eye?”

“Aunt Bella got it,” Tonks says, grinning even wider, for some reason, and running a hand over the edge of the patch. “Who knows, maybe in a few years I’ll look just like Mad-Eye!”

“And you’ll still be ten times prettier, I’m sure,” Moody growls. “We thought we’d have a little chat with your aunt and uncle, Potter, make sure they’re keeping you right, you know…”

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea…” Harry begins, but he trails off when Sirius rubs a warm hand over his shoulders. 

“I’ll tell you something amusing, Harry,” he says, eyes glimmering. “I’ve got Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott waiting for me back at that blasted old house of my mother’s. If I can deal with all of my ridiculous cousins, Lucius Malfoy _and_ Snape, I’m fairly certain I can deal with Lily’s bitchy sister and her rhinoceros of a husband.”

Harry smiles despite himself. “I can’t believe Dumbledore’s hiding _Slytherins_ in your house.”

Sirius grins back. “You should see Kreacher, he’s beside himself!”

“Ah, Harry!” says Mr Weasley, relieving Mr and Mrs Granger of their conversation about random and mundane muggle items. “Shall we go and do it, then?”

“I reckon so, Arthur,” Moody says, eyeing Petunia’s trembling knees.

Sirius, still with his arm around Harry, leads the group across the concourse. Harry supposes they must make an odd sight, what with the mismatch of people, trunks, outfits and animals, but he can’t bring himself to care. Arthur, Tonks and Moody close in on either side, forming an intimidating sort of half-circle around the Dursleys, while Ron, Hermione, Fred, Bill, George and Ginny crowd in behind Harry and Sirius.

“Hello Petunia,” Sirius says, his grin suddenly sharp and his eyes suddenly hard as flint. “I’m sure you remember me.”

“S-Sirius Black!” Uncle Vernon splutters. “You’re Sirius Black!”

“Black,” says Aunt Petunia, looking terrified and resigned all at once.

Sirius nods. “Good, well. As per Dumbledore’s ridiculous orders and the blood magic enacted on your dwellings, Harry still has to return to your pathetic care for another few horrible weeks. We’re just here to let you know that if we hear one word about any ill treatment of my godson—”

“And we _will_ hear about it,” Bill interjects, “won’t we, Harry?”

Harry nods, flicking him a look he returns with a wink.

“Anything,” Sirius insists, “anything at all, just know that you’ll have us to answer to.”

“Even if you don’t let Harry use the fellytone,” Mr Weasley says, to which Hermione whispers, loudly, _“Telephone!”_

“Are you _threatening_ me, sirs?” Uncle Vernon demands, clearly having recovered some of his senses.

“Yes,” Moody says, tipping his bowler back to discreetly reveal his darting eye, at which Aunt Petunia almost screams. “Yes, we are.”

Uncle Vernon swells massively (putting Harry rather in mind of Aunt Marge, two years ago), and blusters, “Do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?”

Sirius leans forward, leering, and he backs away quickly.

“I’d have to say you do, Dursley,” Moody growls, satisfied, and turns away from him entirely. “Give us a shout if you need us, Potter. If we haven’t heard from you in three days we’ll be sending _someone_ along.” He glances meaningfully up at Sirius, who pats Harry’s shoulder again before pulling him into a very nice side hug. Harry’s grateful he doesn’t even have to ask Sirius for affection… He assumes he’d be much too embarrassed to do so on his own.

His next surprise of the day is actually his dreaded cousin Dudley.

“All right, Potter,” he says seriously, looking Harry in the eye with neither a glimpse of fear nor contempt to be seen.

“All right, Dudley,” Harry replies slowly, and Dudley nods. That’s that then, he supposes. Even if he has no idea what it means.

“Take care of yourself, Harry!” Tonks says, clapping him on the back before wandering off to talk to Bill.

“We’ll see you soon, mate,” Ron says, jumping in to hug him once Sirius steps back.

“Really soon, Harry!” Hermione insists, hugging the both of them and planting kisses on each of their cheeks. Ron startles back and begins to laugh, and gets rightfully smacked on the shoulder by Ginny, who grins at Harry and salutes him.

“See you soon, you little shit,” Fred says, pushing a little paper bag into his hand and pressing a finger to his lips.

“Thanks, you two,” Harry tells them sincerely, shoving the bag into his pocket. He waits until none of the adults are looking their way before he yanks George down and kisses him quickly, taking great satisfaction in Aunt Petunia’s gasp of horror. “See you soon.”

“Sooner than you think,” George promises quietly, biting down on his dopey-looking grin. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry replies, and feels the familiar flush of warmth rise to his cheeks. The spot between his lungs floods with overwhelming happiness and adoration as he grins back at his boyfriend and then looks out at all of his gathered friends, still taking his side and having his back even after five years of his nonsense. 

“Now,” he tells the twins, “stop messing around here and go run that shop!” 

“Will do!” Fred says.

“Don’t do anything stupid while we’re away!” George says, and Ginny scoffs. 

“When has that ever stopped him?”

“I think it’s more likely for trouble to find him than the other way around,” Sirius agrees. “We’ll come and get you soon, Harry, and then I’ll take you to see Moony, all right?” Harry nods hopefully. Sirius gives him one last hug before they send him off waving. Harry waves enthusiastically back, and for the first time in his life, realises he’s relatively unbothered that he’s going back to the Dursleys again. He knows he has a proper family, they’re all standing right there, and that they’ll be coming to break him out again soon enough. He’s beginning to see a pattern, actually, as the years go by.

He turns around and leads the way out of the station and onto the sunlit street, Dudley strolling listlessly at his side while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia hurry behind him in fear. 

_Yes,_ he thinks. _Maybe this one won’t be so bad after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, am I right? :3c


	17. Sixth Year, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started legitimate cornflake discourse among my friends. Feel free to leave your opinions in the comments, if you'd like: are plain cornflakes disgusting and sad or am I correct? (as I sit here, happily eating plain cornflakes)

#####  **\- 16 -**

Summer at Number 4, Privet Drive, is as stifling and humid as it always is. Rays of early morning sunlight, bright and clear and unwelcome, stream through Harry’s open windows. With them comes the cool breeze of a summer’s dawn, sending shivers skittering over his skin as he rises abruptly to awareness.

Harry blinks and squints against the intrusive light. He automatically reaches for his kicked down blanket as he cranes his neck to look at the clock on the nightstand. Five-oh-three A.M. With a deep breath and a sigh, he rolls over onto his side and curls beneath the blanket, grateful for the respite from muggy, merciless heat but still unwilling to suffer the cold.

At least he doesn’t feel as exhausted as he might usually. He had gotten to sleep fairly early, yesterday evening, with little else to occupy him besides pining for his boyfriend, wishing for his friends and worrying the pants off himself about his comatose uncle (quite literally, in fact; all of his tossing and turning had only made to stifle him further and slick him with sweat, and so he had twisted and tugged his way out of his remaining underwear in the vain hope of some reprieve).

Eventually, with the thought of the Dursleys remaining snoring in their beds for at least another two hours yet, Harry manages to dredge up the motivation to shove himself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. He showers under a medium temperature—not as scorching as he might have on a January morning in the dorm and still not _cold,_ because he’s not a complete masochist—and towels himself off, feeling all at once fresh and relieved and filled with a second, increasingly common vain hope that today he might not devolve into a sweating, overheating mess by mid-morning. He has no real reason to think that today will be different to any other day in boring, residential Little Whinging, but he keeps his optimism at the forefront of his mind for his own sake more than anything else.

Once downstairs, he pours himself an uninspiring bowl of cornflakes with the new luxury of the Dursleys’ fresh milk and sits at the empty table eating it, revelling in the quiet of the house and the birdsong of the well-groomed gardens. By the time Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are clunking around the house and waking up he’s safely back in his bedroom and hanging out of his right-hand window, open as far as it’ll go. The locks on his door are still in place, though thankfully they haven’t been touched once since he’d arrived just under a week ago, and not one of them has dared come banging on his door demanding his slave labour. Not after their talking-to at King’s Cross.

So he’s hanging out of his window, surveying the bright, topaz greens of their garden and the neighbours’ when he hears it: the echoing, gunshot crack of an apparition somewhere nearby. 

Harry startles hard enough that he clips his ear painfully on the handle of the window. He hisses and rubs the spot as he wanders into the hall and to the top of the stairs, where the Dursleys, for all their hypersensitivity about all things magical, have not noticed anything amiss. Harry frowns and creeps downward, and for a moment swears he can actually _feel_ the figure walking up the garden path in the three seconds before the doorbell chimes.

“I’ll get it,” Uncle Vernon grunts from the kitchen. Harry hears his chair scrape across the floor, mostly because his large bulk rumbles the table and its settings as well, and creeps back up a few steps so that he’s hidden from his uncle’s immediate view. He watches with some morbid fascination and tentative, growing excitement as Uncle Vernon slides back the bolt and undoes the latch, swinging the door wide open.

“Can I help—?” he begins, but stops quite short. Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he bites down on his lip, creeping back down the stairs so he can see more than the polished toes of their visitor’s monks.

“Good morning!” says a light, cheerful, and heart-stopping voice. “I don’t suppose you could be so kind as to get Harry for us, could you?”

Harry rushes down the rest of the stairs, absolutely beaming, to see George Weasley standing proud as day on the doorstep, smiling pleasantly and with his hands resting casually in the pockets of his turned-up jeans. 

“George!” he says, and, unable to help himself, slips through the gap between Uncle Vernon and the doorframe and hugs George tightly. “You didn’t say you were coming!”

With Harry’s outburst, it’s unsurprising that Dudley and Aunt Petunia have been dragged by their curiosity into the hall behind them. He can hear Uncle Vernon choking on some sort of retort or interruption, but he knows quite surely that he doesn’t give a single damn about them now. Not when George is here, grinning broadly, his red hair gleaming and looking outrageously soft as it flutters in the breeze, and clutching Harry’s arms as if he’s something precious.

“It’s good to see you too, Harry,” he laughs. “I’ve come to take you out for the day, to get away from this sorry lot and have some fun. What d’you say?” 

“Merlin, George,” is what Harry says, half lost to bubbling laughter, “do you even have to ask?”

“Well don’t hang around here!” Uncle Vernon finally manages to force out of his puckering, purple mouth, with spittle flying into his quivering moustache. “Either you leave or you come in, boy, but don’t stand around where the neighbours can see you!”

George raises a sharp brow at him, dropping his hands from Harry’s shoulders and slipping them back into his pockets where he not-so-subtly fingers his wand, drawing their attention to where they’d missed it earlier. Harry sighs and bats his elbow gently, stepping under the lintel and watching his uncle until he moves back and lets them in. 

“I’ll only be a second,” he says, turning to George and barely registering the ridiculous smile that stretches his words. “Need to get my wallet. Anything in particular I should bring?”

“You won’t need it,” George says, waving his hand vaguely.

“But I’m bringing it,” Harry tells him, and starts back up the stairs. He feels a little guilty leaving him to stare the Dursleys down in the hallway, but that’s heavily outweighed by the mean exhilaration of letting them squirm and work themselves into a panic in the face of one of the Weasley twins. Regardless, he hurries to grab his wallet (magically altered to hold both muggle and wizarding money, grâce à Hermione Granger), his keys and a jacket, and makes sure his wand is safely tucked into the extra seam stitched into his jeans. The silence drifting up from downstairs feels infinitely heavier than it had done this morning, but he grins and pretends he doesn’t notice.

“You know, people are still talking about your dramatic escape from school last April,” he says loudly, making sure to slam the door to his room and take his time coming down the stairs. “I got a letter from Terry Boot just yesterday asking me if I could ask you how you’d known summoning your brooms would work while they were locked up in Umbridge’s office! Oh, and how you got those two firework dragons to combine and chase her through the hall.”

George laughs where he’s leaning against the open front door, the corners of his gorgeous and sorely-missed brown eyes creasing as he hides his mouth behind his hand. Harry glances at Aunt Petunia, who looks satisfyingly scandalised by their topic of conversation.

“We didn’t know it whether it would or wouldn’t, honestly,” George replies. “We just sort of put as much power behind it as we could and hoped for the best. But the dragon? Nah, all of our fireworks are charmed to work like that.”

“Flitwick was pretty bloody impressed with your talents,” he recalls. “I think that’s why he left that bit of portable swamp, so your heroics would be remembered.”

“Better than any Services to the School award, I’d say,” George agrees. He watches Harry for a moment, seeming to wrestle briefly with something before giving in and sticking out an arm to reel Harry in by the waist. “I still wish we hadn’t had to leave you behind, though.”

Harry snorts and stretches up on his toes to kiss him chastely. “Then think of this as your chance to make up for it.”

“That’s _enough!”_ bellows Uncle Vernon suddenly. He blunders forward to chase Harry and George out of the door, where they go willingly. “I’ve put up with _enough_ having to tolerate your kind coming and going every summer! Now you’re a fairy, too! Bringing all the no-good brats and hooligans to our doorstep! Out! Out with you!”

George watches Uncle Vernon’s outburst with a mix of mild surprise and detached disgust. He stops next to Harry on the doorstep and looks the man up and down distastefully.

“All right, mate,” he says, “didn’t mean to chafe on your delicate sensibilities. Harry’ll be back tonight, but don’t bother staying up—I get the feeling I’m much more interested in his well-being than any of you lot have ever been.”

Uncle Vernon bristles and growls, but cannot seem to form any coherent words through his anger. Harry watches George’s eyebrow jump again in amusement as he laughs shortly and gives them a sarcastic, two-fingered salute.

“Well then, I suppose we’ll be off. Ta-ta now, and watch out for the custard creams!”

With those parting words, George slips his arm back around Harry’s waist, murmurs, “Fair warning, this isn’t going to be pleasant,” and disapparates away.

######  _\- x -_

“Are you sure you should have done that?” Harry asks breathlessly, fighting very strongly the urge to revisit his morning cereal. “What if the neighbours were watching?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” George says, helping steady him. “I put up some precautions before I knocked. We thought I might have to put on a bit of a show.”

“Ugh,” he moans, “I think I’d rather stick to brooms…” 

Finally feeling like he’s back on solid ground, Harry opens his eyes and looks around. George has brought them to the apparition point on Diagon Alley, which appears to be surprisingly bustling for an early Thursday morning. An elderly wizard staggers towards the spot next to them, leaning heavily on his cane. He looks up and gives them a friendly nod before doing a double take, and Harry braces himself for what he’s sure to be the inevitable.

Instead, the wizard smiles pleasantly up at George, and says, “Mr Weasley, you’re up and about early today!”

“Morning, Mr Grosencrass,” George greets, tipping him an invisible hat. “Have you finished your morning stroll already?”

“I was no faster than usual, my boy,” Mr Grosencrass chuckles. “This old body isn’t getting any more spritely.”

George nods and peers down at his watch. 

“Blimey!” he says. “It’s later than I thought. Come on, Harry, Fred’ll kill me if we’re not back by opening time. Have a good day, Mr Grosencrass! We’ll catch up soon!”

The elderly wizard bids them goodbye and disapparates, at which George takes Harry’s hand in his and begins to pull him excitedly into the alley proper.

“Who was that?” Harry asks.

“An old patron of the alley,” George tells him, ducking between early shoppers and the stalls of market sellers. “One of our first customers, in fact. Comes down every morning for his tea at Rose’s and a walk through the shopping district.”

“He seems nice.”

“Oh, he’s a right laugh! Wicked sense of humour under all those unassuming wrinkles.”

Within a minute of leaving the apparition point, a large, brightly painted corner shopfront looms into view. Several signs swing jovially in the breeze, pointing and advertising in wacky, printed scripts. The shopfront itself is vivid purple and orange, and the windows are full of more colourful displays than Harry thinks he’s ever seen in his life. Atop the column of the front window box, a large wooden reproduction of an indiscernible Weasley twin grins down at them, repeatedly lifting his tall black tophat and appearing and disappearing all manner of objects beneath it each time, including a white rabbit, a delicate updo of ginger hair, and a number of live, silent fireworks.

“Oh my god,” Harry says, staring up at it in awe. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” George says, coming to a stop and surveying it proudly. “Welcome to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, home of all of your mischievious needs.”

With a tinkle of a shop’s bell, the front door swings open in front of them and reveals one Fred Weasley, already dolled up in what Harry can only assume to be his work robes. They’re a glaring magenta in colour and embroidered with what seems to be trademark orange, which, with Fred’s hair, he can’t decide whether to think of as brilliant or tragic. The sleeves trail down to a slim flare, from which their orange undersleeves protrude to cover the palms and backs of his strong, sculpted hands, currently pressed to the door frame and handle as he leans onto the street. “Are you two gonna stand there all day, or are you coming in to help?” 

He grins at Harry, who grins back, and beckons them inside. George waves Harry through first and bows deeply as he passes. Harry snorts and smacks his shoulder lightly, but steps through all the same into the bright, whirring chaos he could see from the street.

Entering the shop, he confesses, is like stepping into another dimension. So many things are already up and running, whizzing and popping and blinking so disorientingly it’s a wonder he doesn’t already have a headache. With no one currently on the floor, it’s easy to see their multitude of displays; all around the entrance are stacks of Skiving Snackboxes, perfected over the last year and stocked nearly to the ceiling, followed by a pink and glowing section that smells of flowery perfume over to Harry’s left, and a large shelf full of charmed and mechanical toys to his right. It doesn’t escape his notice that there’s a long highwire stretched above their heads, upon which a tiny, unicycling Umbridge squeaks and squeals and while she’s battered by an assortment of items.

“How are ya, Harry?” Fred says, slapping him on the back while he wanders farther in. “We reckoned we’d be able to sneak you out pretty easily, and if it meant George was going to stop moping, then I was happy to do it sooner rather than later and get you here today.” He looks around at the shelves briefly before turning back to Harry. “So, how’d you like it?”

“It’s absolutely brilliant,” Harry breathes, still gaping at the range of edible jokes lined up beside the counter. “And I’m much better now I’m here.”

“I’m glad,” he says, checking his watch much like his twin. “We’ll give you the tour in a minute, but we’re due to open just… about… Now.” 

George reappears beside them, now in his work robes, though Harry had barely noticed him leave. He flicks his wand to turn the sign on the door, setting off all manner of other display products and spotlight rigs as he does so.

“You’re wearing them!” Harry says excitedly. He reaches up to tweak the blue and orange tie George has fixed under his robes and receives a couple of laughs in return.

“Of course we are,” Fred replies, smoothing out his own tie. “What was it you said about looking the part?”

“They clash horribly.”

“And we love them,” George assures him, bending down to kiss him on the cheek.

“Come on you, are we working or what?” Fred asks.

“Right, yeah, the shop,” George says, dropping a hand back to Harry’s waist. “Even Mum and Dad haven’t been by yet, so you’re the first in the family to get the exclusive tour!”

“I’ve been looking forward to it,” Harry tells them honestly, and grins as they immediately set to tugging him every which way in an effort to show him everything at once. It’s inspired, it’s fantastical, and it’s a feat no one but these two could pull off and do so in such style.

######  _\- x -_

By the time Verity arrives to take her shift, Harry’s had the both the official and unofficial tour, has been buried under an orchestrated avalanche of Nosebleed Nougat, has suffered till duty for all of fifteen minutes before he’d had to hide in the storeroom at the arrival of a very persistent older woman, and has been shoved out the front door with his hood rather unceremoniously pulled over his eyes to go and fetch them all lunch from Rose’s down the road. To put it shortly, he’s been having the absolute time of his life.

“I’m here!” Verity calls, bobbing her bleached blonde head through the crowded doorway as the bell tinkles for maybe the thousandth time of the day.

“Ah! There you are!” Fred calls, waving a toasted sandwich in her direction.

“Just in time,” George says, pushing the last greasy paper bag into her hands. “Our darling Harry’s been an angel once again and gone and fetched us lunch. He’s terrible on shop duty, but I think we might keep him anyway.”

“Harry?” Verity asks, looking Harry up and down with an odd expression as he lets George take over for him at the counter. “Harry Potter?”

“Hi,” Harry tries, aiming for a polite smile and probably failing. They stand for another moment in a web of oddly charged tension before she glances at Fred and shrugs. 

“Thought you’d be taller, honestly,” she concludes bluntly, and sets to wrestling her panini from its wrappings.

“Now, now, he’s very sensitive about his vertically challenged nature,” Fred teases, licking the last of the melted butter from his thumb and winking when Harry thumps him with a box of wizarding popping candy (i.e. the more explosive variety).

“Well, now I’m wondering how you reach,” Verity says.

Harry blinks. “Reach what?”

“Mr Weasley’s face, of course.”

George, currently listening in from the till, falls into a sudden and violent coughing fit.

“You realise there are two of us, Verity,” Fred sighs, balling up his paper bag and bouncing it off Harry’s head and into the bin behind the counter. Harry considers running back into the storeroom just to hide what’s sure to be a horrible, horrible blush rising to his cheeks, but then he remembers that any of the three of them are just as able to drag him back out.

“I’m not that short,” he grumbles instead, but they only laugh at him more.

George finishes his transaction and motions for Fred to take his place. He makes his way over to Harry and Verity, who’s smirking and looking suspiciously smug, and calls for Harry to follow.

“Are you all right?” Harry asks him.

“Hm? Oh, of course,” he says. “I was just thinking that now Verity’s here, there’ll probably be a bit less for you to do, and I’d better show you into the flat in case you wanted to floo over to Sirius.”

“I can do that?” Harry asks immediately, not even bothering to hide his excitement. George laughs, guiding him up the stairs and through the one short, curtained-off passage, at the end of which is their front door. George taps his wand to it and then gestures for Harry to do the same, and with a click the door swings open. 

“You’re in the wards now, so you can come and go as you please,” he says brightly. “Just let us know before you go, otherwise we’ll be sending out the search party on a false alarm.”

“Of course,” Harry snickers, catching the glint of humour in his eyes. “Are you going to show me round?”

“Better make it quick, or I’ll be on cooking duty for a week for slacking,” he says, and prods Harry between the shoulder blades until he’s over threshold. “Straight on’s the living room and kitchen, Fred’s room’s the first left, bathroom’s second, and my room’s this one on the right.”

Harry finds himself ushered through the hallway and into the living room, which is sparsely furnished but still manages to remind him vividly of the Burrow’s front room. Open boxes of all sorts sit lined up on the floor by one wall, notebooks and scattered sheafs of god-knows-what have been abandoned on almost every surface, and there are several pairs of jeans and numerous shirts hanging from the back of the nearest armchair. Parchments of sketches covered in scribbled notes are tacked to the walls among Prophet and Quibbler articles and beaming photographs of family and friends. On one windowsill sits a large rectangular tank full of several fluttering little fish. All in all, home away from home.

“This is great!” Harry says, turning around to smile at George encouragingly. George smiles back and scratches at his neck, but Harry notices him wincing slightly as he surveys the clutter. 

“So…” he ventures, flicking his tongue over his lips and bringing George’s attention back to him. “Do I get a proper kiss now?”

“Oh, Merlin, _yes,”_ George says, sort of breathily, and it makes Harry laugh up until George has his fingers sliding over his hips and pulling them flush together. 

He realises, now, just how much he’s _missed_ this. He’d only had it, them, a few months, and that thought makes him feel horrible and selfish for sulking, but then he remembers it’s all Umbridge’s fault anyway and leans into the comfort George is wrapping him up in readily. He reaches up for George’s face—because yes _,_ he can reach _perfectly well,_ thank you very much—and finally presses their lips together without feeling rushed or nervous or fearful for the first time in three months. George hums happily against his lips and Harry, not that he’s trying very hard, finds he can’t hold back his sigh at the overwhelming feeling of _coming home_ that washes over him. His fingers trace George’s jaw and play with the short strands of hair that refuse to tuck behind his ears. George’s hands wiggle their way under his t-shirt as they usually do, drawing little circles into his back and driving arousal and satisfaction straight through his core. He sinks into the warm caress of lips meeting lips and strong arms folding around him, and enjoys it just as thoroughly as he had behind the greenhouses at Hogwarts.

When Harry comes back to himself, after time has become this unreliable, sinewy thing that only sort of applies to them, he’s seated precariously on the back of the sofa and feeling well and truly snogged.

“Welcome back, Harry,” George murmurs. 

“I’ve never visited before,” Harry murmurs back, giving into the laughter that ripples through his body. George rolls his eyes and nips at his jaw.

“You know what I mean.”

Harry does, but he isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Don’t you have a shop to run?”

“You know, you keep asking me that,” he huffs. “A bloke might think you don’t want him around anymore.”

“You know I only care about keeping your bollocks attached to your body, and not threatened by the two you’ve sort of shouldered the whole job onto.”

George grimaces hard, screwing up his face at the sight of Harry’s smirk. “Please don’t make me think about either of them near my bollocks ever again, thanks.”

Harry laughs and slips down from the sofa, heading over to the fireplace by the kitchen door and blowing a sarcastic kiss over his shoulder. “I’ll be back for closing!”

“You’d better, Potter!”

Harry takes a small pinch of floo powder from the little box on the mantel and throws it over the dormant coals. Green flames spring to life in an instant, and he steps unhesitatingly into them. He turns to smile and wave a _see you later_ at George before calling out, clearly, “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!” and watching the Weasleys’ front room spin dizzyingly out of view.

“Could you have been any _less_ graceful, Potter?” is the first thing he hears when he stumbles into his godfather’s kitchen half a moment later. He coughs a little and rights himself from where he’s tripped over the hearth, trying unsuccessfully to brush the ash from his arms and face.

“Nice to see you too, Malfoy,” he replies, shooting a look at where the arse is sitting propped at the table with the morning’s Daily Prophet, casually as can be.

“Don’t be such a prat, Draco,” says Theodore Nott, lounging across from him and painting his nails a powdery blue. He grins up at Harry, which is as unexpected as it is welcome, and Harry’s smiling back before he even realises how weird this should all be.

“Hey Nott,” he says, giving a little, aborted wave.

“Call me Theo,” Theo replies.

Harry nods. “Harry, then.”

“Nice of you to drop by, Harry,” he says. “We thought Dumbledore was keeping you shackled to those muggles for a bit longer than this.”

“Ah…” Harry says, feeling the guilt slip into his smile. “Well, you see…”

“Harry!” The door at the end of the kitchen slams against the wall and bounces off, ricocheting loudly. Sirius Black stands in its place, looking cleaner and better than ever, absolutely beaming.

“Sirius!” Harry says, running forward and colliding with him halfway down the kitchen in a firm, bracing hug. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I heard your voice, of course,” Sirius replies. He puts Harry at arm’s length to check him over, making sure he’s still all there, possibly, and ruffles his hair. “We’ve been able to take down all the muffling enchantments, see, so sound carries a bit better now. Harder to hide secrets.”

“You have?” Harry asks. “Why’s that?”

“Ah, well—”

“Mostly by forcibly evicting all of our long-deceased, less than pleasant ancestors,” Malfoy says, finally folding away his paper and looking… Almost _amused._ “Between his visits to St Mungo’s, of course.”

“Really?” Harry says, turning back to Sirius. “Did you finally get rid of her?”

“Something like that,” Sirius chuckles. “Ended up doing a bit of renovating at the same time, so hopefully it feels a bit less like a dungeon around the place.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, Harry takes a step back and has a proper look around. It’s certainly the same kitchen he’s gotten used to over the past year, long and all wood and stone, but it’s noticeably… Nicer. Gone are the cobwebs and immovable compressed layers of dust. Gone is the dirt from the flagstones, which look brushed and clean and actually a nice light sandstone rather than what they’d all previously assumed to be a murky dark grey. Gone is the decripty of the furniture, the ceiling, the very walls of the place; everything that had long been sagging and bowing and looming and hunched is once again standing proud and tall, as Harry assumes it would have when under the ownership of much prouder, active branch of the family line.

“With all the decades of built up resentment and malcontent, anywhere’s bound to start looking as run down as this,” Malfoy sighs. He runs a curated fingernail down the grain of the scrubbed wooden table, now properly cared for and varnished several shades darker. “You’re lucky it hasn’t been harder to improve on it, especially with your dour outlook.”

“I’m sure we’ve you and your parents’ influence to thank for the ease, Draco,” Sirius says, hands falling consideringly on the tall back of one of the refurbished chairs. Harry blinks at him, and then at Malfoy, and notes the complete and utter lack of distaste running between them. In fact, it seems like they’re actually quite amicable.

“Not all me,” Malfoy allows. “Frenchy here and her sunny disposition has certainly done us a lot of good.”

Harry glances at Theo’s usual bored, daydreaming expression and snorts.

“Did you just make a muggle reference?”

Malfoy shrugs. “It has been known to happen.”

Harry watches him for a moment, and then gives him up as a bad job and turns to Sirius. “So, are you going to show me your improvements?”

Sirius grins. “I will, after you tell me how you got here all the way from your aunt and uncle’s.”

Harry grimaces. “You’re not going to tell Dumbledore, are you? I just don’t want to be stuck there—”

“I don’t think Dumbledore could stop you if he tried,” Theo says. “Isn’t he already planning on letting you out anyway?”

“Harry, you know I’d rather have you here than there,” Sirius reminds him. He smiles and pats his shoulder. “I’m just wondering how you made your daring escape.”

“It was George,” Harry blurts straight away. Down the table, Malfoy scoffs his lack of surprise. “He sort of just… Turned up on the doorstep and staged a prison break. We got to terrorise Aunt Petunia, so I think it was worth it.”

Sirius throws his head back as he laughs, clutching the back of the chair. “Oh, I can imagine that was very worth it! Very much worth it indeed! What did you do, snog in front of her? Did she faint on you?”

“Only a bit,” Harry confesses, grinning.

“I honestly do not want to know,” Malfoy mutters. “I’ve had to see enough of you two already…”

“Anyway, I’m surprised you couldn’t tell,” Harry continues. “I must smell like I’ve just walked out of a bonfire night party.”

“Now you mention it,” Sirius says, lips still twitching. “Did they show you the shop? Rather marvellous, isn’t it?”

“It’s fantastic,” he agrees. “All the stuff they’ve made—they’re incredible! Even Hermione thinks so.”

“I don’t think anyone could deny that,” Theo hums. “Not if they’d seen what happened after Easter.”

“Indeed,” Sirius says. “Well, would you like the tour of what we’ve done so far?”

As it turns out, ‘forcibly removing’ the Black family portraits amounts to _removing the entire wall around them._ Harry supposes this is a surefire way to ensure that they’re removing the blasted things for good, though it does seem a little drastic in places—especially where there’s now a giant, gaping window where Mrs Black and her curtains used to hang.

“I’m thinking of making a feature out of it,” Sirius says.

“You could always just leave it,” Theo suggests, much to Malfoy’s apparent disgust, because apparently the tour is a group activity now. Harry assumes Theo just personally doesn’t care enough about the hole to feel like it needs anything doing about.

“You could make it a sort of, er, window onto one of those islands you visited and never told me about?” Harry suggests.

Sirius nods and surveys the edges of the exposed brickwork. “I like how you think, Prongslet.”

The hallway has finally seen light for the first time in maybe a century. The wallpaper has repaired itself, and is now a more pleasant shade of forest green with a subtle, shifting, just-barely-there shadow of the pattern that had obviously risen to the surface during its neglect. What appears to be natural light floods the area from the window above the door, still too small to let in what it currently is, but it illuminates the freshly stripped floorboards and the polished bannisters coiling all the way up the stairs. The portraits and house elf heads are gone, replaced with framed photographs, brooms, Gryffindor (and, surprisingly, Slytherin) house paraphernalia, and jars of wonderfully scented herbs all the way up to Buckbeak’s attic. If they notice when Harry hangs back to admire a picture of his parents’ wedding day halfway to the first landing, no one says anything about it.

######  _\- x -_

“Potter!” someone hollers from downstairs.

“Oh shite,” Harry mutters, scrambling out of his comfy chair and out of the lounge. Sirius and Theo follow him, though Malfoy slouches down and pretends to be too absorbed in his book to notice. Harry finds Fred leaning against the kitchen table and watching them with amusement.

“Ready to come back?” he asks.

“Do I have to?” Harry pouts in response. “I’ll only have to go back to the Dursleys…”

“I’m afraid so,” Sirius says sadly.

“We’ll keep you for dinner, at least,” Fred says encouragingly. “And don’t think for a moment we’re going to leave you there forever.”

Harry sighs, hugs Sirius, waves to Theo, and makes a show of trudging over to Fred for fun. Fred snorts and ruffles his hair. “Come on then, troublesome, through you go.”

“See you later,” he tells Sirius and Theo, and throws floo powder over the fire, spinning sickeningly away from Grimmauld Place.

Once again in the twins’ flat, Harry promptly trips straight over the hearth rug and ends up on his back on the floor.

“Tired, Harry?” Fred snickers as he steps out of the flames after him.

“Bugger off,” Harry says, though he grins up at him and doesn’t bother moving until he’s being threatened with large, draping grey ostrich feathers that he sees no reason for them owning. George appears over the back of the sofa, once again in his soft muggle clothes, and suddenly the threat of being sent back to Privet Drive doesn’t seem so terrible.

As promised, by the time they drop Harry back off on the doorstep, all three of the house’s occupants are snoring in their beds. Harry can’t keep the grin off his face as he climbs the stairs to bed, stripping off quickly and haunted by an intense sense memory of hands all over him and his back scraping against cold castle stone. Even though the windows have been open all day—have been since he’d arrived—the heat in his room is absolutely stifling. Grimmauld Place is too noble and sophisticated to suffer any such unpleasantries, and the twins had a constant flow of the warm night air drifting through their flat. Harry wonders if their wards are designed for environmental control. Maybe Bill did it.

Drowsy and sated, he sinks into a sleep that floats on the distant sound of cars on the main road outside and trees waving lazy branches. He wakes just as he had done the previous morning, only with a fortified happiness that not even the appearance of Dudley in the kitchen at an outstanding six forty-five can hinder. He doesn’t say a word, looking once at Harry sitting at the table before helping himself to the bread and jam and dropping tiredly into the place opposite. Harry watches him carefully, but after another fifteen minutes with nothing forthcoming, he huffs a short laugh and clears their plates.

George arrives all the earlier that morning, so Harry drags him up to his room and gets a good half-hour of him all to himself before they have to leave. It really is worth it just to see his aunt and uncle’s faces when they catch them sneaking back down the stairs.

They start up a routine of Weasleys in the morning, Sirius in the afternoon (when he’s left the hospital), dinner alternating between them, and carry it through for an impressive five days. Harry helps out around the shop, careful to disguise himself or hide when necessary and subjecting himself to merciless teasing from Fred and Verity. He then spends several hours subjecting himself to the teasing and ribbing of an old marauder and two Slytherins, with one of whom he’s formed a fast friendship and the second an acquaintance through necessity and forced proximity. He does, at noon on Saturday, catch himself rather enjoying teaming up with Malfoy when they come up with the bright idea to spell Theo’s hair candyfloss pink with one of the twins’ new WonderWitch products. (Theo throws a lazy, low-profile fit about it, but keeps it for as long as the spell will allow. Harry brings him another few different bottles the next day.)

It’s on Monday that the routine breaks, but not necessarily in a bad way. 

Harry notices that today is different the moment he wakes up. Instead of half hanging off the edge of his mattress, lightly chilled, he’s curled under his blanket again and the air coming through the window is distinctly cooler. He struggles up to slam them shut, uncaring of whether the noise will wake anyone in the house. He slips his glasses onto his nose, and when he dresses for the day he puts his hoodie on, rather than leaving it tied around his waist. He meets George in the stringently weeded driveway about ten minutes before they usually leave and peers around at the light misting that’s accrued overnight.

“Chilly, today,” he muses.

“A little,” George agrees grimly, now in long sleeves unbefitting of the season. “Somehow I get the feeling the forecast is due to plummet.”

Harry gazes around at how the mist clings to the silent hedgerows and thinks about how uneasy it makes him feel. A sharp shiver knocks him off-kilter with a vision of a dark canopy and a frozen-over lakeside.

He turns back to George instead and takes his arm. “You’re a little late today.”

“Ah,” he says, smile returning. “You’ll have to excuse Freddie’s excitement when we get in. He’s going to be even more unbearable than usual, because I only told him this morning that I invited Lee and the girls over.”

He raises an eyebrow and Harry nods, and in the next moment of nauseating stretching and pulling, they land in Diagon Alley and are making their way down the street.

“Is Fred all right with Lee, then?” 

“Yeah, I think they’ve made amends. Lee seems to have… Well, he sort of took a deep breath in the dorm one morning and decided he was done crying, so I think he’s decided to turn the page on that chapter.”

“It was a shame,” Harry says softly. “He really liked Fred. They were good together.”

“Yeah, he was pretty besotted. The problem, my darling, is that Fred’s a bit of an idiot.” George sighs. “He thought I was bad, but as Lee said, he’s had his mind quite obviously in another place for the last seven years. Well—maybe not that long, but long enough.”

Harry glances up, unsure whether to laugh or cringe. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly what George is saying. “So, he’s excited to see everyone?”

George smiles and slips a discreet hand over the small of his back. “They’re pretty excited too, seeing as we didn’t get to play all last year. All the missed opportunities to make fun of you, Harry!”

“Who’s all coming then?”

“Just the usual suspects.”

“Oh, we could have the whole team assembled!” Harry grins, nudging George with his elbow. “Have you tried Oliver? I’m sure he’d come over.”

“Alas, I did try. Apparently Percy’s already booked him, the little shit.”

“And we all know what Percy does with books…”

“Slams them on the table and works them all night long?”

“…I was going to say _hides them away in his room for the rest of eternity,_ but okay, I suppose that works too.”

Mondays and Tuesdays are half-days for the twins, ostensibly for product testing and development, but apparently more commonly a combination of fucking around in the workroom and passing out on the sofa upstairs. Fred is almost bouncing off the walls with the rate at which he’s running around the place, greeting Harry enthusiastically but ushering him towards the floo and insisting, “You need to have time to spend with Sirius, Harry, go on, we can’t monopolise you, never mind what my brother thinks, but we’ll be back for you when we close for the afternoon. Have fun, don’t let the snakes bite, and remember we love you lots!”

George is nearly ending himself in the background, though Harry is quite happy to do as Fred asks if it’ll keep him this happy. He steps into Grimmauld Place in the middle of breakfast, proving adequate entertainment when he tells them of Fred’s frantic state.

“It’s Johnson, isn’t it?” Malfoy says. “He’s always been a bit soft around her.”

“Oh?” Harry says, tipping his chair onto its back legs and tucking both hands behind his head. “Didn’t know you paid so much attention to us Gryffindors, Malfoy.”

“Oh yes, he’s been drooling over Ron Weasley since third year,” Theo says flatly, and Malfoy chokes.

“Merlin, wouldn’t that be something?” Harry groans, dropping back onto four feet and already plotting revenge for having his overactive imagination prodded with _that_ visual catastrophe. 

“I will feed you your own toes while they’re still attached, Nott,” Malfoy growls. Theo gives him a close up of the pristine blue varnish on one of his middle fingernails.

######  _\- x -_

Harry receives a letter from Albus Dumbledore that evening, when Hedwig soars through the twins’ kitchen window to perch on Katie’s shoulder, offering a formal and more permanent escape from the Dursleys. Once he’s read the letter first himself, he beams and reads it out to the others.

“Ooh, that sounds good!” Alicia says. “Does this mean we can come and visit you at the Burrow?”

“It’ll be nice to see everyone again,” Angelina smiles.

“What’s that bit about another matter to attend to?” Lee asks.

Harry unfurls the parchment again and frowns down at it. “I’m not sure… Maybe it’s something for fighting Voldemort.”

“Oh bloody hell,” George grumbles. “Can’t the old codger do it himself? There’s no need to drag you after him.”

 _“George,”_ Angelina says. “Whatever it is, he must need Harry. He knows he’s on thin ice after last year.”

“As long as he knows we won’t hesitate to slip him some good old fashioned hair removal tonics, we’re golden,” Fred grins.

Harry snorts just at the thought. “I’m sure that’d be plenty enough to keep him at bay.”

But the good mood does not last until that Friday. It slips by a little more every day as the air cools and the fog thickens and the shoppers disappear from the streets of wizarding London. Foreboding and rising hysteria coil in the midsts of the clouds that billow grey overhead and slump lazily over the forecast graphics Harry catches on the news. Even the Dursleys are unsettled, glancing his way frequently whenever he’s around and gazing worriedly out at the darkening sky. 

Charing Cross bridge and its walkways are toppled and collapse into the Thames. Supposed hurricanes tear apart the West Midlands. Harry receives a stark, horrible vision of Voldemort interrogating Narcissa Malfoy for the whereabouts of her son. She doesn’t show even the slightest crack, and Voldemort never turns his wand on her.

Aunt Petunia takes to even more nervous curtain twitching than she usually does. Harry catches her jumping at loud noises and opening doors. The expression with which she watches him is an odd one, one he remembers she’d worn last year when Dumbledore’s howler had spooked her into stopping his uncle throwing him onto the street. He realises, after watching her just as closely in return, that she sees the last war in him. The war that neither her husband nor son were privy to. The war that had landed him on her doorstep.

He supposes his redheaded boyfriend can’t help her nauseated anxiety.

On Friday evening, at ten past ten, fifty minutes before Dumbledore’s due, Dudley knocks on Harry’s bedroom door. 

Harry knows it’s Dudley because of the lack of his uncle’s clomping and grumbling and demanding, and because the footsteps are far too heavy to be his aunt’s. He opens the door anyway, and finds him shuffling about in the corridor.

“Hello,” Harry says. “Did you need something?”

Dudley swallows and continues staring at the doorjamb adjacent to Harry’s knee. “Your, um…” he says quietly. “Your, um, that—um.”

Harry raises his brows and settles to lean against the frame and wait.

“Your boyfriend,” Dudley finally manages, speaking the word as quickly as if he expects lightning to strike him where he stands, “he was the one who, um… Two years ago… The sweets…”

“The Ton-Tongue Toffee,” Harry says, completely thrown.

“Th-That,” Dudley nods. “He was the one who, um, dropped them, right?”

“Actually, that was Fred,” he corrects without thinking. What the bloody hell is going on?

“Oh.”

“But yes, they made them. What about it?”

“No, I—” Dudley pouts at the floor again. “Those were… It was a joke, wasn’t it? Like a prank?”

Harry frowns. “Yes?”

“I was just thinking… Because it didn’t hurt, it just made my tongue bigger… It didn’t really… _do_ anything.”

“They’re not meant to hurt,” Harry tells him. “They’re pranks.”

“I _know,”_ his cousin huffs, irritated at the point that seems to be flying straight over Harry’s head. “I _know_ it was—and it didn’t hurt!”

“…Are you saying it should have?”

Dudley frowns and lifts his head, but still stares over Harry’s shoulder and refuses to properly look at him. “It was that… _magic_ stuff, though, wasn’t it?”

And suddenly, the sticking gear in Harry’s mind clicks.

“You’re wondering why it didn’t hurt you because it was magic,” he says, and Dudley finally meets his eyes. Of course. Of _course_ he'd be confused if that’s what his parents have taught him since he was eleven. That magic was something to fear.

Harry chews on his bottom lip as he considers this. He glances around his dark room, noting the photographs and album of his parents, Hedwig in her cage on the dresser, and his trunk spilling all manner of robes, books, and trinkets onto the floor. He looks back at Dudley, who still looks like he’s waiting for answers, and mentally sures up his determination.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks. Dudley jumps but nods, and with great effort, Harry steps back and allows him into his space. He wanders over to kick his trunk out of the way, picking up his DA notebook and one of his old Standard Book of Spells. Dudley hovers by the door, which he closes behind himself in the probable worry of his father finding out he’s here.

“Magic isn’t inherently bad,” Harry tells him, whispering the password to the notebook and flipping to some of its best pages. “It can do all sorts of good, like when Hermione repairs my glasses or when the nurse regrew all the bones in my right arm in second year.”

Dudley goes a bit pale at that, noticeable even in the dim light struggling through the window. Harry turns the notebook around so he can see the photographs he’s pasted in there—the one of Susan’s conjured butterflies, one of Seamus and Neville crouched over some fire-spitting azaleas, and a couple of them all at their table in the Great Hall. There are some on the next few pages that he’d wheedled off Colin, some brilliant shots from their inter-house quidditch matches and that one fake magazine shot of the Wood era team in the common room they’d set up as a joke.

“Hogwarts is like home to me,” he admits. “Magic is amazing, when you want it to be.” Dudley nods. Harry can see him regarding the moving figures with acute wariness, but he seems to deduce that, due to the fact Harry’s standing in front of him and is not trapped on paper, they might be safe. “We learn how to use it like you might learn how to use all the tools in design tech or science. We have textbooks, just like you, and go to lessons, just like you, even though there are a lot more moving images and flying objects than in muggle schools.”

“And those sweets?” Dudley asks hoarsely. Harry smiles, quietly but proudly.

“They’re Fred and George’s own invention. They’ve started up a joke shop in London full of all sorts of stuff they’ve made. Their sweets are the main attractions, and those toffees were one of the first sellers. Thanks for being their tester, by the way.”

It occurs to Harry that Dudley can’t seem to decide whether to bolt or ask more questions. He looks ill with it, like everything’s been turned suddenly on its head. It’s a feeling Harry’s intimately familiar with.

“There are bad things too, like dark wizards and curses and things. The worst wizard in recent history has returned, and now some prophecy has dropped me in the middle of the fight. It’s the same man who—who killed my parents, so it’s a bit… complicated. Think of it like Hitler trying to turn the world into his Nazi regime, only with magic and blood purism.” He turns to the window and looks out across the twilight. “All this ominous… _happening,_ it’s all pointing to him gaining power. I know you’ve noticed. Your mum’s terrified, I can see it. From what I’ve heard, this is just like what happened last time.”

“Last time?” comes the small voice behind him. Harry grips the sill, running fingers down the painted wood like he has many times before.

“There was a war. Voldemort, he’s called, tried to take over the country with, we assume, the aim of continuing onto the whole world. He’s incredibly powerful, and he’s building up his allies again. Giants, dementors, the like…”

“Dementors,” Dudley says. “Weren’t—weren’t they those—those things?”

“The things that attacked us last year,” Harry says. He turns curiously to look at his cousin. “I know you couldn’t see them.”

“But they were there, weren’t they?” Dudley presses anxiously.

“Yeah,” Harry tells him. “Some cow from the Ministry sent them after me. She’s the one that terrorised us all year at school. I’m… I’m sorry you had to get caught up in that. They were going to suck out our souls.”

Dudley’s eyes widen comically, bulging out of his head in a way reminiscent of, but not the same as, his father. He seems to struggle with what to say for a long moment, but when he finally opens his mouth, Harry finds himself once again thrown for a loop.

“I never said… um… thank you,” he says. “I know you saved my life. So thank you, I guess, Potter.”

Harry swallows. His throat is tight. “Yeah. I hate those things. They’ve gone for me before.”

“And now this… Voldemort? Has them?”

“Yeah.”

A long, long few minutes of silence settles over the room like a blanket. Harry feels uncomfortable beneath it, not trapped, but constricted. Having Dudley in his space—his _enclosed_ space—is still setting off every warning trigger his brain can come up with, and it’s an effort to fight them down. It’s after an age that Dudley nods again, says, “See you, then,” and finally leaves Harry alone in his room. The Daily Prophets he has sneaked from Harry’s desk, including the one with Augusta Longbottom’s statement gushing over both Harry and Neville, are neither ignored nor missed.

Harry sinks onto his bed, breathing unsteadily, and puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but when he’s next jolted out of his daze, night has fallen fully over Privet Drive.


	18. Sixth Year, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house we call Dumbles out on his terrible decisions concerning underage children and don't forgive him after three seconds
> 
> Also, fun fact! I’m posting this now as I wait in the corridor of my flat with another flat mate because the door has locked us IN. How the hell does this happen? Ngl I don’t want to find out

At exactly eleven o’clock on Harry’s repaired alarm clock, the front doorbell rings. Harry is sprung jarringly from his reverie, spurred into shoving the remainder of his possessions into his trunk before slamming it closed. Downstairs he can hear his uncle clumping into the hall, and manges to make it to the top of the stairs in time to catch muttered insults about their visitor’s manners and propriety.

“Good evening,” Dumbledore says the moment the door swings open. “You must be Mr Vernon Dursley. Might I assume Harry has told you he was expecting me?”

Behind him, Privet Drive has been plunged into total darkness. Harry wonders if the streetlamps have broken again, or if it was Dumbledore’s doing. He slips quietly down the stairs, keeping well out of arm’s reach on the bottom few steps, just in case.

“By the look of stunned fury on your face, I take it he did not,” Dumbledore continues. “Be that as it may, let us assume you have graciously invited me inside. It is unwise to linger on doorsteps in the dark in as troubled times as these.”

With that, Dumbledore steps easily over the threshold and closes the door behind him, watching Uncle Vernon with an indiscernible expression. “I must say, it has been a long time since I was last here. Your agapanthuses appear to be flourishing, though I presume this is more due to Harry’s efforts than yours or your wife’s.”

Uncle Vernon swells and bristles as he usually does, though speech manages to evade him still. Harry is sure that it will return fairly soon, eyeing the throbbing purple vein at his temple. Dumbledore appears unfazed by the display, possibly because he had anticipated it, but of course Harry can’t say for certain. He merely glances around the hall decor, smiling when his eyes land on Harry hidden in the shadows.

“Ah, good evening, Harry,” he says. “It is excellent to see you looking so well.”

Harry smiles and begins to reply, “Thank you, Professor—” but Uncle Vernon is snapped out of his silence at the same time. Harry assumes this is because he’s so disturbed by the thought of anyone mentioning the words ‘Harry’ and ‘excellent’ in the same phrase without any negative turn.

 _“Excuse me,”_ he interrupts gruffly, “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“And yet, sadly, accidental rudeness happens frighteningly often,” Dumbledore says. “Petunia, how interesting it is to finally meet you. I am Albus Dumbledore—we’ve been in correspondence.”

Aunt Petunia has indeed stuck her horsey face through the kitchen door to watch the goings on. She pales at the sight of Dumbledore; Harry is thankful that she is not currently holding anything, as he is sure it would have gone crashing to the floor. Like her husband, she, too, is unable to form words, however this time from either fear or surprise. Dudley chooses this moment to lumber over from the living room, gazing up at Dumbledore with a narrowed, speculative gaze.

“You must be Mr Dudley Dursley?” Dumbledore says.

“Yes, sir,” Dudley shocks them all by replying, albeit stutteringly. “You’re… You’re in those weird newspapers Potter has, aren’t you?”

Harry’s eyes widen as he looks from person to person in horror, but Dumbledore only smiles. “If you are referring to the Daily Prophet, then yes, you are quite correct. The press has a lot to say on current matters, even if their waffle amounts to very little overall.” Dudley swallows and nods, backing away when Dumbledore makes to move into the living room. “Assuming that I have been invited warmly into your sitting room, we will continue our conversation in a little more comfort.”

Harry hurries down the last few steps and follows him in. “Aren’t we leaving, sir?” he asks, thinking that in the armchair Dumbledore has seated himself in, the scene looks disturbingly discordant.

“Indeed we are, Harry,” Dumbledore tells him, waving him in. “There are just a few matters I must discuss first, but they are of a nature not to be discussed out in the open. We shall only be a short while.”

“I would hope so,” growls Uncle Vernon, who has followed on behind, attempting to shield Dudley and Petunia.

“Then maybe we shall all have our wishes granted, tonight,” Dumbledore replies. He draws his wand with such speed that Harry almost misses the movement, and with a flick of his wand the sofa springs up behind the Dursleys, scoops them up, and reseats itself in its original place. “You might as well take a seat.”

As he replaces his wand in the inside pocket of his robes, Harry catches sight of his blackened, shrivelled right hand. It does not look unlike Sirius’ fingers after brushing the veil in the Death Chamber, though the colour is less black than grey and the flesh is more drastically withered.

“Sir,” he says, “your hand—”

“Later, Harry,” Dumbledore says. “Do have a seat. We will not be long.”

Harry edges towards the remaining armchair and sits uncomfortably on its edge. The Dursleys remain silent, and so Dumbledore removes his wand once more.

“Generally, it is custom to offer guests refreshment,” he observes. “As this has not been done…” With a summoning motion, a tall, brown bottle and five crystal tumblers appear midair. The bottle uncorks itself and pours out a measure into each glass, which then float their way over to each of the room’s occupants. Harry takes his out of the air and glances to Dumbledore, who winks, before taking a sip. It’s quite different to butterbeer and other wizarding alcohols Harry’s been slipped by individuals who shall remain nameless, and he finds it both intriguing and very pleasant.

“Madam Rosmerta’s finest oak-matured mead,” Dumbledore tells them, sipping his own drink. The Dursleys do not take their drinks. Or, when Dudley reaches up to claim his glass, his mother returns his hand firmly to his lap. They make a concerted effort to ignore the glasses entirely, which is quite a feat considering they are now gently nudging them in the sides of their heads.

“Well, Harry, I take it you are eager to return to your godfather?”

Harry nods, watching warily over the rim of his glass. “Will I be able to stay there?”

“I should think Sirius would be overjoyed to have you as a permanent lodger,” Dumbledore smiles, eyes glinting in the yellow light of the lamp on the sideboard.

“I—I’m sorry, sir—”

“Oh, not to worry, Harry. I was quite aware of your excursions with Mr Weasley, and of your visitations to the Headquarters. As I am neither your parent nor your guardian but merely your Headmaster, I find myself with little more authority than to request you stay with your aunt here for at least a short while. As it stands, I rather approve of Mr Weasley’s compromise in matters… I do find them a most intriguing and resourceful duo. I fear for the state of the wizarding world if they ever manage to enlist Miss Granger’s expertise.”

Harry nods again, smiling now. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that Molly has extended a standing invitation for you to visit the Burrow any time.”

Harry feels his spirits lift unreservedly. “That’s very kind of her.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agrees. “Now, have you your things ready to go?”

“Yes, sir, it’s all upstairs.”

“Wonderful. If you would fetch it, please.”

Harry springs from the armchair, sliding the tumbler onto the end table and hurrying from the room. He sweeps his bedroom and the bathroom for any leftover possessions before lugging his trunk and Hedwig in her cage down the stairs, leaving them neatly by the door. Dumbledore has not relocated to the hallway, and so Harry is made to rejoin the horrible, silent group in the living room.

“Professor,” he says. “I’m ready.”

“Good, good,” Dumbledore replies, letting up on his wandering humming. “Now, just one more thing.” He turns to the Dursleys, who stiffen and shrink back in revulsion. Well, save for Dudley, who is still frowning at Dumbledore like he doesn’t know what to make of him. Regardless, Dumbledore continues. “As you will no doubt be aware, Harry is to come of age in just over a year’s time—”

“No he won’t,” says Aunt Petunia. Harry’s gaze snaps to hers. It’s the first she’s spoken since Dumbledore’s arrival, and even though she still looks like she’s facing down a dementor unarmed, a new flush of determination has set into her posture.

“Pardon?” Dumbledore says, blinking politely. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

“He won’t. He’s a month younger than Dudley is, and even then he won’t be eighteen until the year after next.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore says, nodding with a chuckle of amusement. “My mistake, of course. In the wizarding world, one comes of age at seventeen, instead.”

“Preposterous!” mutters Uncle Vernon, but he is ultimately ignored.

“Now,” Dumbledore continues, “as you well know, the wizard known as Lord Voldemort has returned to this country—” (Aunt Petunia flinches, though Harry knows it is not at the mention of the name like other wizarding folk) “—and has sent the British community into a state of open war. Harry, here, whom Voldemort has tried to kill on several occasions already, is even graver danger now than ever. Fifteen years ago, when I left him on your doorstep, I also left a letter explaining the circumstances and with a hope that you would take him in as one of your own.” Dumbledore pauses, and a chill settles over the room, though neither he nor Harry have moved.

“I now know I was wrong to disregard the concerns of my deputy, Minerva McGonagall, when she expressed concerns about the future welfare of Harry. You did not do as I asked, and you have never treated Harry as your kin. He has known little else but suffering and misery under your care, and I wish now that the protective magic, however grudging, placed upon this house need not be so vital to his survival.”

“She knew,” Harry croaks. He had let Dumbledore finish his speech—not that he had paid so much attention to the last part—but had felt an immediate rush of something between cold dread and fury at the revelation. “Professor McGonagall—all this time…”

“I am indeed terribly sorry, Harry,” Dumbledore says softly. “I do not think she was aware of the extent of your experience, though she did return frequently through the years to check you were still relatively safe. She did, however, challenge me frequently and irately on my decision, as do Molly and Arthur Weasley, Remus Lupin, and your godfather.”

Harry stares down at his hands. “And you ignored them.”

“I am sorry, my dear boy.”

“Yeah,” he says, not bothering to be either sincere or polite. He’s had enough of this topic.

Across the room, Dumbledore clears his throat and turns back to the Dursleys. “The protective magic evoked by your taking Harry in will cease to operate the moment he becomes of age in the wizarding world; in other words, he will have no reason to return here after his seventeenth birthday. I will not ask you, therefore, but merely tell you: Harry will be returning here once more after this school year to weather the last of the only protection you have ever offered him. After that, he need never see you again, if he so wishes.”

The Dursleys say nothing. Pale Aunt Petunia looks like it’s taking great effort to keep her eyes open and not faint over the back of the sofa at the onslaught of information. Uncle Vernon, whom Harry knows has barely understood a word of this conversation, is moments away from really letting loose what’s on his mind. Dudley looks grim, more so than he ever has in his life. Harry supposes he might still be reeling over what he’s read in the Prophet about Voldemort, only to have it verbally confirmed less than an hour later that this is the man hunting Harry down for slaughter. Maybe it’s more the fact that Harry is important enough to be in the centre of things that’s thrown him so. Harry wouldn’t be surprised; after all, before his eleventh birthday, he’d have never thought it possible either.

“Well, Harry,” Dumbledore says after a moment, on a fresh intake of breath, as he rises from his chair. “I think it is time we best be off… Things to do, people to see.” He sweeps from the room, trailing his lilac-blue robes in a manner that holds all of the grace and effortlessness of Severus Snape and yet none of the coldhearted indifference.

“Bye then,” Harry tells the Dursleys, and hurries after him.

“Would you retrieve your cloak, please, Harry?” Dumbledore asks him once standing by Hedwig and his trunk. “You know the one, just in case. I shall be sending your things ahead to Headquarters where I’m sure Sirius will be delighted to receive them.”

Harry obliges, uncaring for whatever passing judgement Dumbledore may have of his atrocious packing. Harry has, on occasion, seen even the eternally disastrous Dean and Seamus do better. Sometimes he wishes he had Ron’s propensity for absent-minded folding and tidying.

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore assesses once the cloak is seated around Harry’s shoulders. He flicks his wand over the cage and trunk, and both vanish from the hall as if they had never been present.

“And now,” he says, opening the door with a wave of his hand, “let us go forth into this night and pursue the unyielding temptation of adventure.”

Harry’s brows rise above the rim of his glasses as he stares up at Dumbledore in mild disbelief. He has a feeling, of course, that if it was anyone else saying such words, he would find them amusing. Unfortunately Dumbledore is no longer one of those people. Nevertheless, he steps over the threshold and does not grin down at the transparent shield cloaking his body. After so many years, he’s beginning to think the novelty won’t ever wear off.

Dumbledore follows closely behind, closing the door quietly and prompting Harry onto the dark street. Harry raises his hood with the thought that a headless boy walking by in the dark might be too much for boring, unassuming, _normal_ Privet Drive, and follows.

“Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,” Dumbledore says, unaffected by the implication. Harry wonders if Dumbledore really does think him an idiot then, as his fingers have not left the grip of his concealed wand since the front door had opened.

“I’m not allowed to do magic outside of school, sir,” he says anyway.

“If there is an attack, I give you my permission to use any counter-jinx or counter-curse that may occur to you, though I do not anticipate that there will be such an occasion tonight.”

“And why is that, sir?”

“Because you are with me, Harry,” he says. Harry does his best not to snarl at such a blatant display of self importance. “I think this will do.”

They come to a stop somewhere along the road, quite near to where Harry had summoned the Knight Bus on Magnolia Drive three years prior. Beside them is a common fruit tree, bowing beneath the weight of its branches and enough to at least obscure some of themselves from the street. Around them its fallen fruits are plastered to the pavement, less pungent now than they had been when fermenting in the heatwave last week.

Dumbledore removes a small, slender, silver item from his robes. It looks like an ornate, elongated lighter, though what they would need with a muggle lighter Harry could never guess. Dumbledore holds out the lighter and flicks open its lid, clicking the sparking wheel once. A large ball of white light squeezes itself from the cylinder and zooms into the air, splitting into several dozen smaller lights that insinuate themselves in the dirty lamp casings of the streetlamps. All of a sudden the neighbourhood is awash with its sorry orange glow once more, and Harry has discovered the source of the blackout.

“Mr Weasley has been apparating you?” Dumbledore asks. 

“He has, sir,” Harry replies. He takes Dumbledore’s (healthy, unwithered) arm when it is offered and does not throw up once they’ve landed. For that, he lets himself be at least a little proud.

“The sensation of apparition takes some getting used to,” Dumbledore tells him, as if it wasn’t obvious. “Do you need a moment?”

“No, sir,” Harry says. His cloak flutters around his calves. “I’m fine.”

The place Dumbledore has brought him to is not too dissimilar from where they’ve just left, though they’re definitely not in any pokey Surrey housing estate. They’re standing at the edge of a very neat little village square, one with some sort of war memorial in the centre and surrounded by benches, the kind with those little commemorative plaques for passed loved ones. Around the fringes is a lot of greenery with healthy looking bushes and tall, leafy trees. As Dumbledore leads him down one of the main thoroughfares, they pass an empty pub inn, several cottage-like houses and an old church. Though he has to peer somewhat awkwardly up at it, the clock on the face of its modest spire announces the imminent arrival of the midnight hour.

“Tell me, Harry,” Dumbledore says, only barely disturbing the peaceful night air. “Your scar, has it been troubling you recently?”

Harry raises the hand not on his wand to trace the faint, faint ridges on his forehead. “Not as of late. I had been wondering about that… I would have thought it would be worse than ever now he’s gaining so much power.”

“I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,” Dumbledore tells him. Harry looks up and finds his expression one of the most irritating satisfaction. Okay, so he hadn’t really had the time or inclination to pull his friends together and hold a conference about it so they could correct him. Rub it in, why don’t you. “Lord Voldemort has finally realised the dangers of allowing you into his thoughts and feelings at any time. I would not be surprised to find he has begun to employ occlumency against you, instead of relying on our attempts at the reverse last year.”

“I did have one vision, last week,” Harry ventures. The houses here are larger and farther between, an odd cross between quaint and imposing. “It was my last. Maybe he wanted me to see it, I don’t know, but it was Narcissa Malfoy in her home. He wanted to know where Draco was. She refused to tell him. I don’t know if he’s tortured her for it, but even I thought she was impressive.”

Dumbledore hums. “Lady Narcissa Malfoy is an outstanding witch, that fact is quite certain. I’m sure you read that article on the attempt on Minister Bones’ life?” Harry nods. “It would serve you well to know that it was only with the information given to us by both Lady Malfoy and her son, Draco, that we were able to reach her in time.”

Harry nods again. He’d read the reports, how they’d found carnage at the house of then-candidate Amelia Bones, former head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and yet were joyous to be celebrating her escape unscathed. Madam Bones had even given a statement, quite a good one, in Harry’s opinion, which had probably been key in swaying her majority vote in the end.

“Well,” he says eventually, “I don’t think I’ll complain if he’s going to stop sending me those awful things.”

The cloying fog that has been crouching on the eaves of the London skyline this past week is present here also, creeping out into the road and giving the whole village an eerie, ghostly atmosphere. Harry shivers beneath his cloak and takes to looking over his shoulder every minute or so.

“Professor,” he asks quietly. “Where are we?”

“Ah, of course,” Dumbledore says. “I forgot to tell you. This is the charming little village of Budleigh Babberton.”

Harry waits a beat, once they’ve turned into a narrower lane with even larger houses, but when no more is forthcoming, asks, “And _why_ are we here?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore says again. “I think I have lost count of the number of times I have said as much in recent years, but we are, once again, short one staff member at Hogwarts. We are here tonight to persuade an old colleague of mine back into the fold, though it may be difficult to lure him out of such a comfortable retirement.”

“So, what am _I_ doing here?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can find a use for you, Harry.”

Behind them, the church clock chimes over the village. The sound feels more disembodied than it might have otherwise thanks to the persisting mist, and then the air returns to stillness once more. Harry casts another look over his invisible shoulder. Nothing.

“So, Minister Bones,” he says, casting around for some second opinion. “Do you think she’ll be good?”

“Like Lady Malfoy, Minister Bones is also an outstanding witch,” Dumbledore says. “Very no-nonsense, straight to the point… Lethally precise, when needs be.”

Harry hums. “Do you think she’ll…”

“Madam Amelia Bone is a judicious character. I assure you, she is taking this threat as seriously as you or I. Even if she had not already been so pragmatic, I’m sure the attempt on her life would have spurred her into action.”

Harry fishes for a little more information—information on anything he can think about, really—and gets not much in return. Dumbledore will tell him what happened to his hand, but not now. The Ministry home protection leaflets were truly not that useful. Dumbledore’s jam preference tends towards raspberry. Inferi are reanimated dead bodies. The usual, inane chatter.

They arrive at the open gates of an Edwardian brick built house with tall hedges fronting the garden and delicate, white framed sash windows. It’s double fronted, Harry observes idly, as he eyes the door that looks to have been blasted open with some force. Aunt Petunia had always aspired to be the type who lives in a house like this.

“Oh dear, oh dear…” Dumbledore mutters as they crunch quietly over the gravel of the garden path. “Wands out, Harry.”

Harry lights his wand and holds it up, inspecting the remains of the shorn brass hinges in the doorframe. Inside, whatever had been of the owner’s possessions lie shattered on the floor. The hall rug is dusty with plaster and shreds of wallpaper, framed paintings are skewed on walls left with scores of savage claw marks, and broken bits of vase are crushed further beneath their feet. They find the living room, wands held aloft to take in the new extent of the devastation; a grandfather clock lies on its side, its pendulum flung across the room, while sideboards and sofas and chairs have been upturned and smashed, littering their contents throughout the house. Curtains hang limply from their snapped rails. Floorboards creak unnaturally with every step.

“Horace?” Dumbledore hisses into the tilting horrorshow. His only reply is a groan from a disturbed darkwood dresser nearby.

Harry’s wandlight lands on a discarded newspaper on the floor. It lies half beneath the corpse of the grandfather clock, dusty and blinking back at him with his own disoriented face. It is the Prophet of almost a month ago, again reporting on Harry and Voldemort’s appearances at the Ministry. He still cannot remember the flash of the bulb that had set the lighting for this picture.

As he peers down at the odd stains around the edges, one small drip of dark liquid hits the paper. It soaks in and joins the rest, darkening the print beyond legibility. Several moments later, in which time Harry has taken at least three measured, assessing breaths, another drip joins the first. Harry holds out his wand, gaze drawing up to the murky ceiling for the source of the drip. The glow of light lands on shattered patches of ceiling plasterboard and the floorboards protruding from behind. Dripping from them, slowly, is something dark and beginning to congeal.

He must sway forward accidentally, because while he looks up the next drop lands on his forehead. He’s lifting a hand to wipe it off when Dumbledore appears in front of him and pulls his arm gently down, instead dabbing at it himself and pressing the stained finger to his tongue. Harry watches with muted horror as Dumbledore considers the taste of the blood before turning away to the back corner of the creaking room.

Following his gaze, Harry spots it immediately.

Beneath the tall, picturesque windows is an unassuming lilac-and-white pinstriped armchair. The upholstery is timeworn and seats a heavily dimpled matching cushion, and there’s even a well-loved pair of slippers poking out from beneath its fringe. The problem that Harry, and doubtlessly Dumbledore, has noticed, is that it is perfectly intact. The problem is, that in a room of splintered and demolished furniture, this one, lone, _intact_ armchair is quite conspicuous. That, and the way it clashes horribly with the rest of what looks to have been carefully curated decor.

Dumbledore walks forward cautiously, eyes never wandering from the suspicious armchair. Harry takes a step after him before deciding he doesn’t really want to and hangs back instead, giving him a perfect view of the exact moment Dumbledore lunges his arm forward and jabs the lit end of his wand hard into the cushion.

“MERLIN’S BEARD!”

With a shout, loud in the echoing silence, the greying head of an interesting looking middle-aged man tears through the top of the back cushion. The springs of the armchair creak and squeal as it tips forward into a sort of standing position, the arms and feet separating from the body to take the shape of the man apparently inside.

“No need to disfigure me, Albus!” the man says, looking disgruntled. The armchair continues to deflate around him, bouncing back into a human-shaped set of silk pyjamas as he shakes himself out. His left arm comes free, then his left leg, then his right, and the cushion padding deflates to merely the outline of a portly belly.

“Well I must say,” Dumbledore says, “you do make a very convincing armchair.”

“Ah, it’s all in the upholstery,” the man replies, patting his sides with one human arm and one remaining sofa arm. “I come by the stuffing naturally. What gave me away?”

Dumbledore lifts his wand over his shoulder, illuminating Harry behind him as he gestures to the ceiling. “Dragon’s blood.”

“Ahh…” the man sighs, and his eyes finally land on Harry. “Oh ho?”

“Oh yes, introductions,” Dumbledore says. “Harry, I would like you to meet an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”

Horace Slughorn appears to be a jolly sort of man. He has a face that gives him a look of unassuming harmlessness, and a persistent smile that is almost absent in its presence. As he lifts his right hand to give Harry a small wave, he finally notices that he has failed to untransfigure it from its sofa arm and laughs gently as he shakes the remaining padding out.

“Horace,” Dumbledore continues. “Well, you know who this is, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I do indeed,” Horace Slughorn replies, stepping a little closer to get a better look. “Harry Potter.”

Harry stands awkwardly and doesn’t reply. 

“So, what’s with all the theatrics, Horace?” Dumbledore asks. “You weren’t waiting for someone else, were you?”

“Someone else?” Slughorn repeats. “No, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He watches Dumbledore survey the carnage ringing them like a hurricane of splinters and sighs. “Oh, all right… The Death Eaters have been trying to recruit me for over a year, did you know that? Do you know what that’s like? There’s only so many times you can say no to these people…” He glances out of the window over their shoulders. “Anyway, I never stay anywhere for more than a week now. The muggles who own this place are on holiday in the _Canary Islands,_ can you imagine that? I may be an old man, Albus, old and creaking and wheezing, but I even I would appreciate a getaway like that.”

Dumbledore makes an interested noise, surely to appease the impressed look on Slughorn’s face. “Well, I think we should put it back in order for them, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

While Harry stands uselessly in the middle of the long room, Dumbledore and Slughorn raise their wands in a wide arc. At once, the house begins to put itself to rights. Little shards of glass and crystal roll and jump over the thin rugs covering the hardwood floor, attaching themselves to a fallen chandelier and a number of listless picture frames; newspapers and magazines flutter up into the air as the chandelier reaffixes itself to the ceiling; floor lamps, sideboards, and the grandfather clock rise from their pauper’s graves to stand themselves back up against the walls and switch themselves on; the large mirror over the mantelpiece pieces itself back together and straightens before the fire ignites warmly in the grate beneath it; the baby grand piano by the hall door clangs harmoniously as it happily repairs its strings, and books, records, papers and picture frames fly and spin across the room as they return to their rightful places on shelves and hooks alike. 

Harry gazes around at it all in wonder, grinning at the array of buzzing things flying around and re-forming themselves so seamlessly. He ducks a spinning lamp and steps out of the way of the cracked plaster and wallpaper rising once more to the ceilings. As everything quietens and settles, the small squeaking noise of a struggling crystal pendant makes itself known beneath his foot. Harry lifts the toe of his trainer and the pendant zooms up into the air to fix itself back onto the chandelier. He turns, exhilarated, back to Dumbledore and Slughorn, who are inspecting their work on the now very pleasant and comfortable home with pleased expressions.

“That was fun,” Dumbledore says happily. He nods to himself and turns to Slughorn. “Would you mind if I used the loo?”

“No, of course,” Slughorn replies, though he’s already admitted that this isn’t his house to lend out. As Dumbledore wanders over to the door he calls after him. “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re here, Albus. The answer’s still no—absolutely, and unequivocally, no!”

Harry smiles to himself as he slips his doused wand back into his pocket and slips the cloak from his shoulders. He finds himself, then, in an awkward moment of quiet with Horace Slughorn, who smiles at him and chuckles gently.

“…You’re very like your father,” Slughorn says. “Except for the eyes, of course… You have your—”

“—my mother’s eyes, yeah,” Harry finishes. Yeah, funnily enough, he knows that.

“Lily,” Slughorn continues. “Lovely Lily… She was a wonderful student, your mother. Exceedingly bright—vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been sorted into my house instead. Some very cheeky answers I used to get to that.”

“Your house, sir?” Harry asks.

“I was Head of Slytherin, in my time,” Slughorn tells him proudly. Harry bites down on his lip. If his mother could have been a Slyherin, then maybe… All that talk about his similarity to Voldemort… Maybe, it wasn’t him at all. “You’ll be a Gryffindor like her, I suppose?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yes sir.”

“Yes, yes… It often runs in the family. But your mother, you know, she was even more impressive considering she was muggleborn…” 

“One of my best friends is muggleborn,” Harry says immediately, affronted. “She’s the best in our year.”

“Oh no, no, my boy!” Slughorn hurries to amend. “Please don’t think I’m _prejudiced,_ no… It’s just the circumstances, you know. Muggles and their beliefs… Well. Anyway, your mother was one of my absolute favourites!” He turns to a tall dresser on their left, laden with framed photographs of jostling, waving, and in some cases, broom-mounted people. “Look, there she is, right at the front.”

Harry walks slowly over to the dresser, looking from photograph to photograph with care. Each one is labelled with a name, often followed by an autograph, and Slughorn appears in almost every one. There’s Barnabus Cuffe, whose name Harry thinks he recognises from the credits of the Daily Prophet, Gwenog Jones, one of Ginny’s favourite quidditch stars and captain of the Holyhead Harpies, and then there, front and centre as Slughorn had said, is a picture of a group of students all raising their glasses to the camera. His mother stands next to Slughorn himself, smiling serenely.

“All mine,” Slughorn says. “Each and every one. Ex-students, I mean. There’s Dirk Cresswell, another talented muggleborn, mind. He’s now the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course, and still gives me excellent insider information on all the goings-on at Gringotts… Oh, and Ambrosius Flume—sends me a hamper of Honeydukes’ best every birthday, and all because I was able to introduce him to Ciceron Harkiss who gave him his first job, you know! Gwenog Jones… People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”

“And all these people know where to find you?” Harry asks incredulously. “They know where to send it all?”

The smile slides from Slughorn’s face. “No,” he says. “Not any more. I’ve been out of touch with everyone for a year… Still, I am doing what I should, keeping my head down and out of the way…”

Harry notices one picture, slightly off to the side, with a black-haired boy whose nose and cheekbones remind him very vividly of his godfather. For moment, actually, he thinks it _is_ Sirius, though when he picks it up to take a closer look he realises his mistake.

“Ah, yes,” Slughorn says. “Regulus Black. You no doubt know of his older brother, Sirius? I saw in the paper they announced him to be your godfather.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, still studying the picture in his hands.

“I taught the whole Black family, except Sirius. It’s a shame… A talented boy… I got Regulus when he came around, but I would have liked the set.”

Harry thinks the way Slughorn is speaking sounds rather like a collector. He looks again at the collection of photographs, signatures and important, successful people.

“Do you mind if I take this, Horace?” comes Dumbledore’s voice. “I do like knitting patterns.” Footsteps click gently down the hall as he returns to the room with a magazine in hand, and Harry notices in the back of his mind that the floorboards are no longer creaking. Some sort of charm, maybe. 

“Of course,” Slughorn says. “But you know what my answer is.”

“That I do,” Dumbledore agrees. “Do you know, I find it very interesting how quickly news seems to spread in Hogwarts. I haven’t yet advertised our new teaching availability, yet just the other day I received an owl from a very enthusiastic Penny Haywood wondering if she would be suitable for the job.” Harry watches Slughorn’s interest blatantly catch on Dumbledore’s words, and feels a gear, somewhere in his mind, begin to tick. “Suitability, I thought, was not the question. Of course, Ms Haywood is an incredibly talented witch, more than qualified for the position, really, and would be greeted like an old friend. The only trouble is that I am hesitant to welcome in such a fresh face to the staff with things as precarious as they are… I would hate for her to become overwhelmed and disillusioned with her new position of responsibility.”

“Penny Haywood,” Slughorn says. “Really… I’ve heard of her, definitely… Very talented, very talented indeed…”

“And highly resourceful, with it. She once even managed to convince Professor Snape to teach her how to brew the notoriously tricky Wolfsbane potion.” Dumbledore blinks as if remembering something, and smiles to Harry. “Actually, Ms Haywood is an old school friend of the Weasleys, Harry. I’m sure Messrs William or Charles would be able to tell you about their adventures together should you wish to ask.”

“Oh,” Harry says, a little surprised. “Thank you, sir.”

Between them, Slughorn appears to be quite torn. He wrings his hands in front of his velveteen housecoat and tips his head this way and that as he thinks.

“Sir,” Harry blurts, feeling the little gear fall suddenly into place. “What if both Mr Slughorn and Madam Haywood take on the role?”

Dumbledore turns a twinkling eye from Slughorn and back to him. “However do you mean, Harry?”

“Like part time, or split responsibilities,” he explains. “That way, no one would be overfaced with work, and there would be two experts on hand to help us—er, learn.” He almost says _defend the school,_ though thinks that’s rather what Slughorn has been avoiding all this time. He’s yet to see a quiet year at Hogwarts, so he agrees that the concern is quite well founded.

Dumbledore smiles and nods to Harry. “What an interesting suggestion. Horace, your thoughts?”

“I’m not sure,” Slughorn argues feebly. “I still don’t think I would be suited…”

“Ah, well,” Dumbledore says. “That is a shame. I shall have to send my reply to Ms Haywood, and hope that her own daring experiences both outside and within the walls of Hogwarts have been enough to prepare her for teaching the masses.”

Harry frowns, but replaces the photograph of Regulus in its spot on the dresser and resettles the invisibility cloak where it’s draped over his elbow, wandering back over to Dumbledore’s side.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Slughorn asks.

“Oh, I think I know a lost cause when I see one, regrettable though it is,” Dumbledore says, looking none too bothered by it. “I would have considered it a great personal triumph if you had agreed to come back to Hogwarts, especially considering Harry’s wonderful idea of employing Ms Haywood at the same time. You are, I think, just like my friend Mr Potter here: one of a kind.”

“Oh, I—”

“Well, bye bye, Horace. With any luck, I shall see you again soon.”

Dumbledore pats Harry lightly on the shoulder as he leaves. Harry gives the bewildered Slughorn one last nod before following, retracing their steps through the now pristine hall and back out onto the garden path. They make it to the gate before there’s a muffled crash and a shout behind them.

“All right! I’ll do it!” Slughorn calls after them, stumbling through the front door in his slippers. “But I want Professor Merrythought’s old office, not the water closet I had before! And I expect a pay rise—these are mad times we live in! Mad!”

“Wonderful!” Dumbledore says, before turning to Harry and murmuring, “Mad indeed.”

Horace Slughorn bumbles back into his borrowed home, leaving Harry and Dumbledore to stride off back into the night.

“I must applaud you, Harry, for the miracle you’ve worked tonight.”

“Sorry, sir?” Harry says. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, but you did,” Dumbledore replies. “Not only did you show Horace exactly what he stands to gain by returning, you came up with an offer he would be a fool to turn down.”

“Oh. Er…”

“As I’m sure you’ve figured out, Harry, Horace likes his comforts. He also like the company of the successful and famous—one of which you are, and one of which you are sure to become. He enjoys feeling as though he influences these people, and has an uncanny knack for handpicking those students who go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Back when he first taught, he formed a sort of club with his favourites—a networking affair, if you will, with numerous parties throughout the years. You, Harry, have set him up for working in an environment with not only yourself, but a possible connection to a number of successful Weasleys and a talented, professionally revered coworker.

“I tell you this not to turn you away from Horace—or, now, Professor Slughorn—but to make sure you are aware of his nature. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry, as you would be the crown jewel of his collection. I would allow you to do with that what you will.”

By now, they have returned to the road outside the village church. The fog has only thickened in the hour or so that they’ve been here, and it has Harry more on edge than ever.

“Here will do, Harry. If you will take my arm.”

Harry does as he is asked, and is unsurprised post-apparition to find himself in the small gated square outside Grimmauld Place. They have landed in the shadows beneath the canopies of two large oak trees, and Dumbledore seems keen to keep them for a few moments longer.

“Harry, I gather from your cousin that you have been taking the Daily Prophet over the last few weeks?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replies, finding himself impatiently waiting once again for Dumbledore to get to the point.

“Then you will have noticed that there have not been leaks so much as floods where concerned with your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “and now everyone knows that I’m—”

“Ah, but they do not,” Dumbledore corrects. “There are only two people on Earth who know of the full contents of that prophecy, and we are both looking at one of them. Anyone else has merely guessed—however correctly—that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to retrieve a prophecy, and that the prophecy in question concerned you. It is not a difficult jump to make, however my previous statement relies on my assumption that you have not told anyone of what the prophecy said.”

Harry resists the vile, encompassing urge to shrink back and lie, to wince and dodge the certain disappointment, if not anger, he will receive. Because he, he feels, was well within his right to tell them.

“I told Ron and Hermione,” he says, taking a shaky breath, “and I wasn’t going to keep it from Ginny and the twins.”

Dumbledore hums and nods, but he does not overtly upset—for the moment. “I approve of your decision to tell Miss Granger and Mr Weasley,” he says. “It would be a disservice to their loyalty and friendship to not confide with them such an important matter. The others, however…”

“They deserve to know too,” Harry says a little snappishly, surprising himself. “They’ve risked their lives for me, they care just as much. They’re good at keeping secrets, and they know not to tell anyone.”

Dumbledore nods again. “As long as you trust them to keep it to themselves.”

“I trust them with my life,” Harry replies instantly.

“Well, on another note, I would like to have you take private lessons with me this year, Harry.”

“Private? With you?” A nod. “Right… And what will you be teaching me?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I thought it might be prudent I start taking a more involved role in your education.” Because that isn’t dodgy at all. “And one last thing—I want you to carry your invisibility cloak with you everywhere, Harry, even at Hogwarts. You can never be too careful.”

“I will, sir,” Harry says, and finally the old man seems satisfied.

“Come then,” he says. “Sirius will be wearing holes in the floor awaiting your arrival.”

Together they leave the park, strolling down the street as if it weren’t almost one in the morning. In front of them, Number Twelve grinds its way out of nothing between numbers ten and fourteen, and they reach the pavement outside just as the last of the wrought iron railings slide up like spears in front of them. Harry pushes through and up to the front door, which swings open at the tap of his wand. The hallway is lit welcomingly by the bright, polished gas lamps along the wall, and he heads automatically for the kitchen, presuming to find anyone waiting for him gathered there. When he finds the door imperturbed, however, he huffs with irritation at the thought of another Order meeting. Dumbledore dispells it with a wave of his hand and gestures him inside.

To his utter lack of surprise, when the door does give way, he is met by the gazes of about two dozen people gathered around the kitchen table.

“Harry!” Sirius cries, leaping from his chair and hurrying over.

“Harry!” says another voice—Mrs Weasley’s, in fact—as she does the same.

“Hey, Sirius,” Harry says brightly, accepting a quick hug from his godfather before turning himself over to Mrs Weasley’s inspection. She hugs him tightly and warmly, the way he appreciates and still looks forward to every time, and then holds him at arm’s length.

“Well, I have to say you’re looking _much_ healthier this year, but still on the thin side, dear me, dear me… I hope they’ve been feeding you in that house…”

“As I understand it, Molly, Harry has been very well taken care of these past few weeks,” Dumbledore says, smiling and sweeping into the room to take his seat. Harry smiles at Mrs Weasley, whose worries appear imminently assuaged, though he’s still expecting her to shove a plateful of food under his nose at the first chance she gets.

“Wotcher, Harry!” calls Tonks from down the table. “You’re looking happy!”

“All right, Tonks?” he replies, grinning. 

She grins back, rocking on her chair in a way that will surely end in disaster. “Pretty good, if I do say so!”

Harry looks over to greet everyone, waving to Mr Weasley and Bill and returning Kingsley’s warm nod. He can’t help but feel the absence of Remus’ calming presence acutely.

“What’s the news?” he asks, sliding into the seat between Sirius and Bill and ignoring Mrs Weasley’s noises of protest.

“We’re shoring up our defences at the moment, both Ministry and Order-led efforts,” Kingsley informs him. “Our priorities here are Order safehouses, figures of importance, and, of course, Hogwarts.”

“I take it we won’t be getting any more dementor guards,” Harry replies, aiming for humourous and falling a little short. “Have there been many difficulties?”

“Most of the problem comes from where we don’t know who is and isn’t on our side,” huffs an elderly, thinning wizard several seats away. “We don’t want to accidentally put our best efforts into potential Death Eaters.”

“There is also the question of family influences on some of the children currently attending the school,” says Professor McGonagall, whom Harry hadn’t originally noticed. He jumps at the sound of her voice and she gives him a very small, knowing smile that he sheepishly returns.

“We already have two of them under my protection here,” Sirius says, “but we are aware of others across a number of year groups who may be swayed to Voldemort’s side, whether willingly or under duress. Ideally, we would remove those students from their situation, but as we have no evidence for any sort of activity…”

“Can’t Malfoy help with that?” Harry asks. “Surely he’d want to help his friends?”

“He’s done all he can for them already, I’m afraid,” says Hestia Jones. “We’ve checked in on the Parkinsons to make sure they’re still relatively neutral, the Zabinis, as he’s told us, are too smart to embroil themselves in this fight, and the Greengrasses have always kept a fairly low profile. Nott, as you know, has been moved here under our watch, but we fear we are too late to keep the Crabbes and the Goyles from You-Know-Who’s clutches.”

“Theo isn’t anything to do with Voldemort,” Harry says sharply. “He was in the DA with us last year, as were the Greengrasses. If they were able to do that, then I don’t think you need to worry about them.”

“It’s all right, Harry, we’re not accusing them,” Mr Weasley promises. “You know what You-Know-Who’s like… Threatening families and cursing them to do his work.”

Harry nods and slouches back in his seat.

“I really do think this is enough for one night,” Mrs Weasley sighs. “It’ll be the early hours soon and Harry’s had a long night, and I’d rather not leave my son in charge of the house any longer than necessary.”

“Don’t worry,” Bill whispers, leaning down to Harry, “Hermione’s already there with them. I think they’ll survive.”

Harry grins and gets up from the table when the other gathered witches and witches grumble their assent and start shuffling towards the door. “Are you hanging around at all?”

Bill stretches as he stands, cracking his shoulders and neck loudly. “Not much,” he sighs. “Popping in and out every so often… Things are getting busier and busier all over the place, what with the rising hysteria and all.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, feeling a little disappointed that he probably won’t be able to get Ron to persuade them all into a game over the orchard when he next visits. He’s been itching to fly ever since he first visited Diagon with George, but it just isn’t quite the same when it’s just him, Ron and Ginny. Maybe he can persuade Fred and George… Maybe, maybe they could get the rest of the team over—

“I’ve taken your things up to your old bedroom Harry,” Sirius says, breaking him out of his broom-addled musings. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Will Phineas Nigellus be spying on me?” he asks blandly.

“Certainly not,” Sirius snorts, looking up at a spot over Harry’s shoulder. Harry looks around to see the last remaining portrait hanging in the hallway, familiar despite its blank canvas for the light snoring they can hear from out of frame.

“Fine by me,” he says then, grinning up at Sirius and happy to be shuffled up the stairs.

“Come by tomorrow, Harry!” calls Mrs Weasley. Harry leans over the bannister to wave down at them before they leave.

“Stay safe!” Mr Weasley tells him. Bill ushers his mother towards the door and sends up a wink that still has Harry going a little bit warm in the face.

“Potter, you’ve arrived,” drawls Malfoy, lounging against the balustrade on the next landing.

“Miss me?” Harry smirks, opening the door of his and Ron’s room and not bothering to argue when Malfoy invites himself in. 

“He’s been inconsolable,” says Theo, appearing around the corner and dropping unhesitatingly down onto Ron’s bed.

Harry snorts and goes over to Hedwig’s cage, unlocking the door so she can fly freely around the room. “You know, now that I think about it, the last time my friends held a meeting in this room we were discussing whether or not I was being possessed by Voldemort.” Theo’s eyebrows rise in polite interest and Malfoy feigns boredom as he spins on the inexplicable addition of a muggle desk chair by the desk. Sirius’ doing, no doubt. “Funny thing is, he really did try to possess me when we had that fight in the Ministry. Bit preemptive, weren’t we.”

“‘Try’, Potter?” Malfoy repeats. “Did you actually manage to shake him off?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry says. “Sort of. I think he was trying to get Dumbledore to kill me—us… Whatever. It’s not exactly… Well… I wasn’t exactly in the best place to remember what was going on…”

“Of course not,” Theo snorts. “I’d like to see Draco throw off an _imperius_ half as well as you do. Possession is no easy thing—I’d’ve been surprised you weren’t half dead by the time you’d got him out.”

“Oh,” Harry frowns. “I hadn’t really…”

“You don’t do much, do you Potter,” Malfoy snipes, standing from his chair and stalking to the door. “Anyway, I, for one, care about my sleep schedule, so I’m going to bed. Feel free to stay up and braid each other’s hair and whatnot.”

Theo sighs gently as he watches him stomp away. “I’d better leave you to get some rest. Sirius said you’d know where to find us—I think he said it’s the twins’ old room we’re in.”

“Ah, thanks, yeah,” Harry says. “See you in the morning?”

Theo slides gracefully to his feet and smiles, pausing at the door. “Sleep well,” he says, and disappears. 

Harry lies back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling for a long time before he realises he’s grinning from ear to ear like a lunatic. It’s good to be home.


	19. Sixth Year, III

Harry wakes up the next morning to a loud knocking on the door.

“Wake up, Potter, post’s arrived!”

“What?” he sort-of manages to grumble. What’s wrong with the post?

“Come on, Harry, or I’ll open it first!” Sirius adds.

“Coming!” Harry says. “I’m coming, all right?”

And yes, when he does get down to the kitchen, Hedwig is waiting for him with a thick parchment envelope in her beak. Malfoy and Theo are sitting at the table already, clutching their own envelopes over half-eaten breakfasts. Sirius slides a plate of toast into Harry’s place as he takes the envelope from Hedwig and finally recognises what it is, not to mention the black Ministry crest stamped onto the flap.

“We said we’d open them together, Potter, but we didn’t think we’d be waiting on your slower-than-Binns arse to get down here,” Malfoy sneers. His fingers are already prising the seal from the paper.

“Let’s just do it, shall we?” Theo says. Harry looks down at the envelope and turns it over, breaking through the seal and opening the flap. He takes a deep breath before he pulls out the papers inside.

_ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS_

_Harry James Potter_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Astronomy_ _A_

 _Care of Magical Creatures_ _E_

 _Charms_ _E_

 _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ _O_

 _Divination_ _P_

 _Herbology_ _E_

 _History of Magic_ _T_

 _Potions_ _E_

 _Transfiguration_ _O_

Harry breathes out, slowly, through his mouth, and reads the paper over thrice more. The results stay the same no matter how many times he checks them.

“Well, that’s a relief,” mutters Malfoy across the table. 

“Glad you’re happy,” Theo says distractedly.

“Why, are you all right?” Harry says.

“Theo?” 

“Hm, what?” Theo asks, finally looking up from his letters. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Great, actually. This is… This is brilliant.”

“Please, I’m dying to ask,” Sirius says, hovering at Harry’s side and apparently making a good effort not to snoop. “Did you do well?”

“Brilliant,” Harry says, breaking out into a grin. “Always knew I’d fail Divination, and I did sort of get accosted by Voldemort halfway through History, but everything else—brilliant!”

“That’s wonderful, Harry!” Sirius cheers, throwing his arms around Harry’s shoulders and squeezing him tightly. Harry laughs and hugs one arm with his free hand.

“Seven OWLs,” says Malfoy. “Good going.”

“And I expect you got, what, eleven?” Harry teases.

“Ten,” Theo says, peering unabashedly over his friend’s arm. “Oooh, only an ‘A’ in Divination, how atrocious.”

“You have one in Arithmancy, don’t pretend.” 

“Arithmancy’s bloody hard, though.”

The two Slytherins toss their papers on the table and settle quite happily back into their breakfasts. Harry lets Sirius finish reading his before he puts it down. He rolls his eyes when the other two immediately pull it towards them, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. Instead, he turns theirs towards him to have a nosey of his own.

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Astronomy_ _E_

 _Care of Magical Creatures_ _E_

 _Charms_ _O_

 _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ _E_

 _Divination_ _A_

 _Herbology_ _O_

 _History of Magic_ _E_

 _Potions_ _O_

 _Transfiguration_ _E_

 _Arithmancy_ _E_

_Theodore Selverne Nott_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Astronomy_ _E_

 _Care of Magical Creatures_ _E_

 _Charms_ _E_

 _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ _E_

 _Ancient Runes_ _O_

 _Herbology_ _O_

 _History of Magic_ _E_

 _Potions_ _O_

 _Transfiguration_ _E_

 _Arithmancy_ _A_

“Not a fail between you,” Harry murmurs. 

“Don’t feel bad,” Theo tells him. “You were running around all year tutoring us in Defence _as well as_ avoiding Umbridge, fighting Voldemort, and sneaking around with Weasley. I’d go as far as to say you had quite enough to deal with already without aiming for straight Es.”

Malfoy hums with supposed disapproval, but there’s still a small smile hanging on the corners of his lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry sighs. He picks up the last of his toast and stands from the table, retrieving his results paper. “I’m going to check in with Ron and Hermione—er, if that’s all right?” 

“Of course it is,” Sirius grins. “You can bring them over if you want, though I think Molly might want to steal you for the day.”

“I’ll be back at… Some point,” Harry agrees. He wanders down the kitchen and reaches for the floo powder on the mantelpiece, kneeling at the grate and throwing it in.

“The Burrow!” he says, and sticks his head into the flames.

All at once the sickening spinning drags him far away from London and Grimmauld Place, and he keeps his eyes tightly shut against the rushing heat until it slows to a stop. When it does, he finds himself blinking up into the nook between the kitchen and the living room of the Weasleys’ home, listening to a bustle of shrieking and crashing.

“Mrs Weasley!” he calls. “Ron, Hermione! Are you there?”

“Harry, dear!” Mrs Weasley replies, hurrying over to the fire and bending down to see him. “How lovely to see you!” 

“Good to see you too, Mrs Weasley,” he greets, grinning widely. “Is it—I mean, am I—”

“Are you coming through, dear? The owls have just arrived, and I’m afraid Hermione’s rather inconsolable.”

“If that’s all right?”

“Of course it is! Come on, here.” Mrs Weasley holds out her hand. Harry has to think fairly hard to be able to lift his from the hearth in London, but then he’s grasping her arm and heaving himself through the rest of the way.

“Harry’s here!” Mrs Weasley shouts as he brushes himself off and checks over the parchment in his hand. “Oh, you have your results already. Wonderful, wonderful, they’re just in the kitchen there…”

“Harry!” Ron shouts, bowling him over in a tangle of red hair and limbs no sooner than he’s taken his first step into the house.

“Ron! Good to see you!”

“Good to see you too, mate—we’ve just had our OWLs delivered!”

“Well go on, then!” Harry tells him, shoving him towards the kitchen where Hermione is quite obviously beside herself. With them are Ginny, and, most shockingly, Fleur Delacour.

“Oh, Harry!” Fleur cries. “It is so good to see you! It has been too long!”

Harry finds himself wrapped in a light and flowery hug, with a kiss pressed to each of his cheeks. “It’s good to see you too, Fleur,” he replies, somewhat bewildered. “Er—”

“Oh!” Hermione says, having finally freed her letter from her owl and slit it open with shaking hands.

“Here we go,” Ron mutters, looking a bit grim, and opens his too.

Harry, Ginny, Fleur and Mrs Weasley look on into the stretching silence as the two read through their results. Hermione has gone very, very still with her back to them, though Ron has a great big grin growing across his face. He eventually looks up at Harry and his mum and thrusts out the parchment proudly.

“I did it,” he says. “I actually did it—Divination not included, of course, I was always gonna fail that one—but I did it!”

Harry smiles in response and pulls him into another hug while Mrs Weasley takes the parchment to read for herself. “That’s fantastic, Ron!”

“Reckon I didn’t do half as well as you in Defence,” he replies, “but that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Course not!” Harry says. He holds out his own paper when Ron looks curiously down at it. “You were right, Divination was a bust, but I think I did all right.”

Mrs Weasley bustles in to hug Ron warmly before hurrying off around the kitchen to put together who knows what. Harry takes Ron’s results at his insistence and scans through them.

_Ronald Billius Weasley_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Astronomy_ _A_

 _Care of Magical Creatures_ _E_

 _Charms_ _E_

 _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ _O_

 _Divination_ _P_

 _Herbology_ _A_

 _History of Magic_ _A_

 _Potions_ _E_

 _Transfiguration_ _E_

“Ron, this is really good!”

“Hermione?” Ginny asks, stepping up to a still silent Hermione and resting her hand gently on her shoulder, peering up into her face.

“I—” Hermione says. “It’s not bad.”

“Come off it,” Ron says, wandering over and stooping to drop his chin to her shoulder. “Yep! Ten ‘Outstandings’, one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ for Defence. We knew you’d do it!” He wraps an arm around her waist and squeezes, but then looks down at her with amusement. “You’re actually disappointed, aren’t you?”

“No!” she protests, and lets Ginny take the paper from her hands. Ginny scans the paper, grins, and throws herself back at Hermione, her arms curling around her neck and making Hermione jump with fright.

“You’re amazing!” she squeals and presses a happy kiss to Hermione’s cheek before snatching up her hands and dancing her around the table. “Oh how great! Prefect _and_ perfect grades! Keep going like this and you’ll be Minister for Magic by the end of the year!”

“Ginny!” Hermione says, sounding breathless. “We haven’t even started NEWTs yet!” Ron is looking on in laughter and trying to rescue Hermione’s results from between them.

“Oh my,” murmurs Fleur next to Harry. He looks up to see her smiling behind her hand, her eyes sparkling in the morning light streaming into the kitchen.

“They’re cute,” he says simply.

“Indeed,” she replies. “You are probably wondering why I’m here, yes?”

“Er, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Bill has brought me here to get to know his family. He is at work a lot because they need him, while I am only here for my English.” She turns to Harry with the tension of someone with a secret to tell. “Bill and I, we’re going to be married!”

Harry blinks and feels his jaw drop open as he scrambles to process. “Wow!” he finally manages. “I mean, congratulations! That’s great!”

“Thank you!” she replies, glowing, and then lowers her voice again. “But I do not think they like me much.”

“Who, the Weasleys?”

 _“Ouais,_ they have not been so happy to have me here. Ronald is fine, but…”

Harry frowns. “I’ll see what’s going on, all right? I don’t see why they wouldn’t like you… You were a Triwizard champion after all.”

“You are too kind, Harry,” she says. “You do not have to do anything for my sake. I’m sure I will be just fine.”

“Harry, come on!” Ginny calls. “What are you both standing over there for? Mum’s making pancakes!”

“But we’ve already eaten!” Hermione squeaks over Ron’s shoulder, flailing her legs dangerously while he continues swinging her round and round. Harry wonders when she’ll realise that these are Weasleys she’s talking to, and especially that she’s friends with _Ron._ First breakfast or no, they’re getting celebration pancakes. Even Harry isn’t fool enough to turn those down.

######  _\- x -_

When Harry visits St Mungo’s for the first time in half a year, London is pouring with rain. Huge droplets cascade against the pavement, making each slab a quivering, shadowy mirror in which he watches his reflection. Everything is grey, down to the dark clothes of the pedestrians passing by and the dust and pollution layering the buildings. He thinks Sirius might be about to grab his hand when they enter the humid and crowded Old Street Station, and again when the next train to Morden shows up packed to the doors. People filter off and he and Sirius step on, quickly finding themselves pressed against the glass between the seats and the standing space.

“You don’t like this, do you?” Harry murmurs, shaking out the arms of his sodden raincoat. The carriage is full of the smell of damp hair and clothes, and somehow it makes the air fresher than it makes it smell like wet dog.

“I got quite used to hiding, these past few years,” Sirius replies, hand flying up to grab the nearest pole with stubby fingers as the train sings and begins pulling away from the platform. It’s five stops and lots of hurrying commuters before the automated train lady announces Kennington Station and Sirius lets out a small sigh of relief. Harry wonders why he doesn’t just travel as Padfoot. Surely the system has been in utter chaos since the collapse at Charing Cross.

The department store is the same few blocks away as last time, but without the cheerful swarm of Weasleys buffeting them it feels like a lot longer of a walk. It’s still raining, too, though not quite as hard as earlier. Sirius doesn’t talk much aside from pointing to one bus advert for _Independence Day_ and saying he thinks the underside of the alien spaceship looks like the MACUSA logo. He then finds himself having to explain when Harry tells him he has no idea what MACUSA is, and while Harry couldn’t care less about American politics he really is grateful for the distraction.

They don’t even bother with the welcome wizard at the front desk. He glances up as they pass and says nothing, and Sirius leads them straight to the fourth floor and into a ward, Harry presumes, that handles sensitive cases like Remus. The room is long and lit by the same glowing orbs that had been in Mr Weasley’s ward and the Janus Thickey Ward, and every single one of the patients are lying flat on their backs in their gurneys and are as still as… well.

Sirius pulls back the curtain three beds down on the left and slips through, beckoning Harry in after him. Harry feels the sound dampening charms fall back into place as the curtain falls shut, though he wonders why a ward so quiet would need them.

Remus is lying on the bed in front of him. His hair is limp and unkempt over the pillow, his face is pale and throwing sharp relief onto his many scars. His nearly threadbare clothes have been replaced with a hospital gown and blanket, though Harry spies a pile with a pair of neat trousers and a thick woolen jumper at the very top balanced on his bedside table. Sirius goes over to one side of the bed, sitting carefully in the visitor’s chair with a wince.

“Hey, Moony,” he says. He reaches out to take Remus’ hand from the bedsheets and cradle it in his own. “I’m back. I brought someone to see you.”

“Hey, Remus,” Harry croaks. “It’s good to see you.” His fingers trace over the rung at the end of the bed. There’s some sort of display hovering over Remus’ head, not unlike what muggles use machines for, indicating a heartbeat that draws itself through the air, oxygen saturation and muscle wastage, among other things.

“Come and sit down, Harry,” Sirius says, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the bed. Harry shuffles over, unwilling to look away from his uncle’s sleeping face. He swallows when he realises how calm he looks, how much better rested he seems than when he was healthy and conscious. He doesn’t even need to look at Sirius to know how much this is hurting him too.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” he murmurs, trailing his forefinger hesitantly down the edge of Remus’ wrist. They come to rest on his pulse, which seems to be the strongest thing about him. “Dumbledore was keeping me with the Dursleys, and even when George apparated me out Sirius said we couldn’t risk anyone seeing me.”

“Nothing to feel guilty for,” Sirius replies. Harry gets the feeling he’s talking in Remus’ stead.

Not too long after they arrive a mediwitch comes and goes, showering Remus with an array of spells and making interested noises as a quill makes notes on the clipboard at the end of his bed.

“Lycanthropy is such a terrible thing to have forced upon someone,” she says, “but in this case Mr Lupin must be thankful; I fear we would not be here without it. The regression has reversed since the full moon and he is back on track.”

Sirius’ face spasms in a way Harry has never seen before. He quickly excuses himself to go up to the cafeteria and leave Sirius to his thoughts. He can’t even begin to understand, so he won’t pretend he does, but what he does know is how much of an ordeal they’ve been through in just the past few years. If anyone deserves a break, it’s them.

######  _\- x -_

“Knock knock,” someone calls through the door.

“Who’s there?” Harry mumbles, dredged from the ocean floor of dreamless sleep and unwilling to move. His lips feel numb and swollen as he speaks, and his mouth tastes like crap.

“Someone who loves you,” is the reply.

Harry heaves himself over onto his back and lets his head loll over to look at the door. “Have you been watching muggle films behind my back?”

The door cracks open and a Weasley twin pokes his head through. Harry reaches for his glasses but doesn’t bother sitting up. “What if I have?”

 _“I_ wanted to watch those with you,” he grumbles, and George laughs.

“Don’t worry, I’m only copying things I’ve heard from Lee. Now, how’re you feeling?”

“All right,” Harry says, and budges over to let George sit down next to him on the bed. “Mind telling me why you’re here?”

“We got an owl from Nott telling us you’d disappeared off to your room. Said he was worried that in the two days you hadn’t seen me you’d gone into some kind of depressive funk. Told me you’ve not been down to eat when I got here.”

Harry sighs and throws his wrist up to cool his forehead. “I said I was going for a lie down.”

George smiles and nudges a hand behind Harry’s ear, stroking his thumb down Harry’s cheek to the corner of his lips. “Well it’s half-seven now, so I’m pretty sure you’re not going to sleep tonight.”

Harry lets his eyes fall closed again. “Ah, fuck.”

“Hedwig delivered the letter, so we can get him back for stealing her if you want?”

“No, no, I said if he could convince her to take his letters he was welcome to. He’s got—oh, here she is.”

A small warm lump has leapt up onto the bed and is making its sharp-clawed way over Harry’s feet. She prowls along the duvet and ends up curling into the nook between George’s thigh and Harry’s. He assumes George reaches down to pet her when a rumbling like a motorbike engine starts against his pelvis.

“Leaf, meet George. George, Leaf.”

“Leaf?”

“Leaf.”

There’s a shuffling and a creaking of springs and the bed tips as if to catapult Harry onto the floor, but then he opens his eyes to find George’s staring right back across the pillow.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asks.

No. Maybe. Sort of. Please.

“I went with Sirius to visit Remus,” he says. He keeps his gaze locked on George’s, watching the way his eyelashes flicker and stick and brush against his cheeks. He lets his attention linger over the freckles dashing across his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones. The strings of gold and sea green amidst the bronze-brown of his irises. “The nurse said his lycanthropy is the only thing keeping him alive.”

“Jesus Christ,” George breathes. The hand under Harry’s head curls into his hair and he moves his thumb up to Harry’s temple instead, slipping towards the corner of his still-sleep-ridden eye. The purring keeps up between them, a pool of warmth becoming the stopgap between legs and duvet.

“I don’t know how Sirius is taking it. They said the regression has stopped and he’s back on track, but it’s…” 

Neither of them finish the sentence. Harry stays just where he is, searching for something he doesn’t even know in George’s eyes. What he finds is promise and determination and a fierce, unfathomable love, and it almost brings him to tears. “We just have to hope it saves him, I think.”

George noses forward and kisses him, featherlight, on the forehead. His lips are soft and burning warm, brushing across his brow bone and temple. “He’ll come back to you,” he says quietly. “I don’t think he’d ever give either of you up without a fight.”

Harry nods and tilts his head up. Their noses bump together and both of them laugh.

“I love you,” says one.

“I love you too,” says the other.

“…Do you think we could get something to eat? I haven’t eaten since breakfast and apparently neither have you.”

“Bloody Weasleys.”

######  _\- x -_

Theo slips into Harry’s room the next morning. George is long gone, as is the evidence of their secret evening feast, and he settles on the edge of Ron’s bed so quietly Harry almost doesn’t hear him. He jumps but smiles, and Theo smiles back but it’s weak—distracted—and it sets him immediately on edge.

“What’s up?” he asks, sitting up and putting away his quidditch playbook.

“Would it be all right if I ask you to listen for a second?” Theo asks. 

Harry motions for him to continue. He takes a shaky breath and opens his mouth, staring down at the sheets between his fingers as he talks, and Harry doesn’t interrupt him once.

“So… Non-binary?” he echoes once Theo peters into silence. “How d’you mean?”

Theo smiles and continues picking at the flakes of his nail polish, even though he’s looking Harry in the eye again. “Like I said, it’s a gender non-conforming thing. As in, neither one nor the other. I don’t comply to the binary. People call me either ‘he’ or ‘they’.”

Harry nods slowly. “So you’re not a guy and you’re not a girl. You know, I’ve not heard of that before. It sounds brilliant.”

“Yeah?” Theo asks, and the corners of his mouth flick upwards.

“Course,” he replies. “How does it work?”

Theo does laugh then, smothering giggles behind his fist and taking some rather unsteady breaths. Malfoy pokes his head through the door and rolls his eyes but doesn’t come in.

“What?” Harry asks, bewildered, and Theo only laughs harder. “Did I say something?”

######  _\- x -_

“You know, I went through such a crash course of guilt when I was thirteen and realised I liked you,” Harry murmurs. “I was so caught up in feeling bad for liking _you_ that I forgot to feel bad for liking men. I totally forgot it was a thing. I was so gone for you it was ridiculous.”

George grins, flicks his eyes up and down Harry’s body where he’s pressed, shirtless against the flat’s wall. His breath rolls warmly over Harry’s chest and makes him shiver. “I’d say you’re still pretty gone for me.”

Harry laughs and tightens his legs around George’s waist. “I never came back.”

######  _\- x -_

Mrs Weasley invites Harry and Sirius to celebrate his birthday at the Burrow. The idea that they’d even want to celebrate with him has Harry’s heart leaping for joy in his chest, and so he barely even thinks before he agrees, replies with a thank-you and a hug, and then later says yes to George’s suggestion of apparating him over. He floos into the twins’ flat after his daily visit to St Mungo’s and an exchange of unexpected gifts from the Slytherins to find the living room already occupied by Angelina Johnson, curled on the sofa and flicking through the pages of one of the boys’ experiment notebooks.

“All right, Potter?” she says, looking up at him and flashing a grin.

“All right, Captain,” he replies, saluting her lazily.

She goes back to her reading and he continues through the flat, almost tripping over someone crouched in the hall in the dark with their face in their hands.

“Sorry!” he says, leaping from one foot to the next to avoid both standing on Fred and falling on his arse. “What the hell are you doing down there?”

“Fuck,” Fred mutters, his voice oddly thin, and scrambles to his feet. He’s doing a bad job of not looking shifty, and even in the low light Harry can tell his face is bright red. “Hi, Harry. Was just using the toilet, don’t mind me.”

“Yeah… All right. George downstairs?”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s just closing up.”

“Cheers.” Harry leaves him and escapes the flat, hurrying down to the shop floor. George whoops and grabs him around the waist when he spots him, spinning them both in a giggling circle.

“Happy birthday!” he shouts, beginning to plaster Harry’s face with kisses.

“Thank you!” Harry laughs and shoves at George’s shoulders until he relents. “Thank you, I love you too.”

George grins and swings him around once more, pulling him close at the waist when they still. “Are you ready for—” He pauses and his fingers stroke over the fleecy material of Harry’s hoodie in contemplation. “Is this new? It looks great!”

“Theo gave it to me this morning,” Harry tells him proudly, holding up his wrist to show off. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“Very snazzy,” George agrees. “Makes you right huggable. Did that Malfoy git get you anything?”

“Yeah, a new set of flying goggles.” Harry grins. “He said if we were going to compete he wants someone worth competing against. You’d think he’d learn after three years of being absolutely slaughtered.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? Well, our presents are waiting for you back home with the rest of the family, so what d’you say we make a move?”

“I say lead on,” Harry grins, and curls his fingers around George’s as they make their way out onto Diagon Alley. He flips up his hood and smiles away to himself, grateful for something (that isn’t just George) to huddle into against the odd, misty chill of this year’s summer.

“So, was there any particular reason why Fred was hiding in the hallway?” he asks when they turn the corner outside the Wyverne’s Waterskine.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” George snorts. “He just found Angelina wearing his jumper and had to take a moment. Or twenty, apparently.”

“Oh, is _that_ why she was wearing a ‘G’ on her front?” Harry says teasingly.

“Damn,” he laughs, “must’ve gotten the wrong one.”

“You’re setting them up, aren’t you?”

“Setting them up? They’re driving me up the wall, Harry! The _wall,_ I tell you. Not that Fred doesn’t always… I’m shoving them together as best I can. ‘Lost interest’ my arse, they’re ridiculous. She nicked that jumper off the back of the sofa the moment I put it there.”

Harry swings their arms out in front of them and smiles. “I think it’s cute.”

“Oh, it’s adorable, really. I just wish Fred would get his head _out_ of his arse.”

“One day.”

“Circe save me.”

The apparition point on the alley is like a ghost town. Anyone coming or going does so in a hurry, as if afraid to be seen loitering in one place for too long. Harry and George wander up, unconcerned, and Harry removes his hand from George’s and places it in the crook of his arm instead.

“Ready?”

“I still prefer flying.”

“Shame you left your broom at Headquarters then, isn’t it? Come on.”

George disapparates them both to just outside the Burrow’s wards. For the supposed number of Weasleys inside, Harry thinks it’s oddly quiet. The scuffling and hissing voices he can hear even ten feet from the door are the most suspicious of all.

“Well Harry,” George says, grinning as he leads them towards the house. “Would you like to do the honours?”

“All right…” Harry says, eyeing him warily. He reaches for the handle and turns it.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

In spite of his suspicions, Harry still almost jumps out of his bloody skin. Behind the door, in the Weasleys’ front room, are more people than should ever be able to fit inside. Ron, Hermione and Ginny are at the forefront, all of whom rush forward to throw their arms around him in turn.

“Oh, Happy Birthday Harry!” Hermione near-sobs. “I’m so, so glad you’re here!”

“Thanks, Hermione!” he replies breathlessly. “Me too—but what’s—?”

“Sorry it took so bloomin’ long to get here!” Ron says. He claps Harry hard on the shoulder, propelling him inside. “Everyone wanted to come celebrate with you.”

“I can’t believe you’re sixteen already!” cries Mrs Weasley when Ginny lets him go and shoves him towards her. She swaddles him in one of her signature hugs, and her drapey woolen cardigan makes a good attempt at suffocating him. It’s Mr Weasley who taps her on the shoulder and gets her to let go, with a, “Don’t strangle the poor boy, dear,” and his own, gentler hug for Harry. Harry almost gasps at the unexpected affection. His fingers curl into Mr Weasley’s thinning vest jumper and cling while he does his best not to think about his own father, long gone. 

When he steps back, Harry is greeted by the rest of the smiling faces in the room. Sirius grins and toasts him with a glass. Bill and Fleur wave enthusiastically from beside him. Moody and Tonks are by the fireplace, already in enthused conversation with Cedric, Percy and Oliver. Fred and Angelina have managed to sneak in, probably while Harry and George were walking through Diagon, and have joined a seemingly overjoyed Katie, Alicia and Lee. Neville and Luna are here, alongside a man with long, straggly white-blonde hair like Luna’s and Neville’s slightly-less-stern-looking Grandmother. Even Seamus and Dean are crouched on the sofa, making more noise than the twins and Ron combined with a number of party poppers and odd, curling foil kazoo things.

“Am I dreaming?” Harry murmurs. Someone pinches him sharply in the arm and he turns to glare at them.

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Ginny grins. “Now come on! You and Neville have presents and food and cake to see to!”

“I just got in a minute ago,” Neville says, beaming. “They jumped out at me too. Happy birthday, mate.”

“Happy birthday, Nev,” Harry agrees, and they clap each other amiably on the shoulder.

Both of them are dragged outside and into the garden by Ginny, where a whole array of foods have been set up on a large table along with two huge, iced cakes. Mrs Weasley has obviously prepared to feed the five-thousand, and by the looks of it her concerns have been well-founded.

“Charlie sends his apologies for not being able to make it,” Bill says after he’s wished Harry another happy birthday. “He’s sent you a present, but he’d’ve rather been handing it over in person. He said everyone’s had to rearrange their time off since one of the wards failed and something burned down half the holding complex.”  
“Merlin, I hope they’re all all right,” Harry says. “Tell him no worries and thank you, by the way, that sounds much more pressing.”

“Will do,” Bill assures, patting one of Harry’s shoulders and ruffling his hair.

“All right, team!” Oliver bellows out of the blue, not unlike Angelina just a few weeks prior. Harry, Katie, Alicia, Fred, George and Angelina all spin on their heels to face him with matching gleeful expressions. Even Ron and Ginny twitch to join them. They can hear Seamus, Tonks and Neville snickering off to the side, but none of them pay them any attention.

“Yes, Captain?” Katie asks, failing to hold back a small snort.

“Oh, nothing really,” Oliver grins. “Just wanted to see what you’d do.”

“Oliver!” Alicia protests, slapping Fred on the back when he cracks up in giggles.

“Don’t tease them,” Percy says fondly, mussing Oliver’s hair with the backs of his knuckles.

“Shall we have a game anyway?” Ron suggests. Harry can feel him vibrating in place beside him.

“Ooh, yes!” Ginny says, clapping her hands together in a blur. “Let’s, let’s!”

“To your brooms, then!” Oliver shouts, and suddenly there’s a mad Weasley race to the broom shed. The girls summon theirs from where they’ve left them leaning against the wall of the Burrow, and Cedric disapparates and reappears several moments later with his own in hand. Harry turns to Sirius, fully prepared to beg him to let him floo back to Grimmauld Place, and sees that he’s already holding out his Firebolt towards him.

“Knew you’d be needing it sooner or later,” he grins, winking. “You’re all cut from the same cloth, your lot.”

“Thank you!” Harry says, a surprised laugh bubbling out of him.

“Five-a-side!” Oliver calls. “Harry, Fred, Ginevra, Bell and I versus Diggory, George, Spinnet, Johnson and Ronald!”

In the few moments it takes to set up on the pitch, Lee somehow manages to find his way up to the top of one of the trees in the orchard for his vantage point. Moody growls and charms his voice so as not to alert the whole damn county to their match, and many of the adults conjure seats to watch. It’s probably one of the most surreal experiences in his life—and that’s saying a lot, really—but Harry realises he’s possibly never been happier to play quidditch.

“We’ll have to do this again when Charlie’s here!” Ron shouts. 

“We can take him on any day!” Ginny yells back.

“He’ll make you eat your words if he’s bringing Danny back with him!”

“Who’s Danny?” Harry shouts.

“Friend from school!” Fred says.

“A bloody good chaser, that’s who!” Angelina amends, whizzing by.

“We can take him!” Ginny insists, even as she’s hot on her tail. Harry decides he’ll probably be better off steering well clear of her if he ever sees that manic grin on her face again. 

But then George is grinning as he bats away the bludger heading for Harry and Oliver is shouting because he’s helping the wrong team, even if it’s _his_ team, and then Harry and Cedric are in a fierce chase for the snitch that insists on taking them under or around every tree within a mile. Cedric gets it, in the end, but Harry doesn’t even spare a second to be disappointed. They reconvene and the second round commences, and the crowd of gathered family below them cheers.

######  _\- x -_

“Hey, Harry?” Ron asks when they’re hiding up in his room. 

“Yes?” Harry replies, still scribbling away in his notebook.

“How likely d’you think it is that you’ll be captain next year?”

Harry pauses mid sentence to look at him. “I don’t know,” he says. “Katie’s a year older, has a lot more experience, _and_ she’s brilliant. I wouldn’t be surprised if Angelina’s been secretly training her for it.”

“That’s true,” Ron says, and the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Still, if it _is_ you, would you let me back on the team?”

Harry sighs and puts his quill away. He’s only dripping ink everywhere, anyway. “You know I’d have to put all the positions up, right? I’ve only ever played with one team, plus you, later, and I have no idea what anyone else is capable of. It’s not fair to them to waste potential talent, but you know I think you’re perfectly qualified, right?”

“Right,” Ron echoes, but he’s back to looking fidgety. 

“Oi, even if you don’t get it, you’ll more than likely be our reserve, yeah? It doesn’t mean you’ll be off the pitch completely.”

Ron sighs again and smiles. “Yeah. All right.”

“Oi!” hisses Ginny’s voice from outside the door. “Mum’s coming up in a minute to check we’re all in bed!”

“Thanks!” Harry replies, scrambling for his book and leftover sweets. “See you later,” he says to Ron. “Sleep—er, sleep well.”

“It’s bloody weird that she’s put you in their room and not mine,” Ron mumbles, but he smiles and gives him a wave. Harry creeps out of the door and down the stairs, stretching his legs out to skip the ones that creak. He manages to slip into Fred and George’s old room just as he hears Mrs Weasley start up the first few steps from the kitchen and closes the door hurriedly behind him, flinging off his jeans and hoodie and diving under the covers of George’s bed just in time. Mrs Weasley comes to a stop outside his door for a short moment before moving on, and the familiarity jolts Harry with memories of last summer at Grimmauld Place. There are more footsteps on the stairs as Mrs Weasley returns to the floor she and Arthur sleep on—Harry assumes Bill didn’t miss out on his inspection purely because that’s just how Mrs Weasley is.

So it’s needless to say that when, ten minutes later, the door whips open and closed so quickly someone just barely manages to slip through, it almost scares Harry out of his skin.

“All right, Trouble?” the person asks. Harry laughs and flops back onto the bed, giving up his fruitless scrabble for his glasses.

“All right, Trouble,” he whispers back. George steps away from the door and into the moonlight streaming through the curtains Harry hasn’t bothered to close. Half of his face is lit, throwing the shadows deeper around his nose and mouth, and his soft smile is clearly visible. “Come on, get over here.”

He does as he’s told, stripping off his jeans and his t-shirt as he goes. Harry has a few seconds to appreciate him from afar before he’s suddenly very, very close, slipping into the bed next to him and tugging the duvet up around his waist. 

“Funny seeing you here,” George says, propping himself on one elbow and grinning down at Harry.

“Yeah, funny that,” Harry snorts. “How come you’re here?”

“Homesick,” he replies. His smile and his eyes and the fingers gently stroking down Harry’s cheek say a million other things in contradiction, but Harry doesn’t need any of them said out loud.

“Me too,” he says, and sneaks a hand over George’s burning-warm shoulder to tug him down to kiss. The movement of their lips is languid and filled with feeling, though Harry is feeling an extra kick from the knowledge that they’re doing this in _George’s childhood bed,_ and they’re sneaking around again while they’re at it. He hums into George’s mouth and lets their tongues brush together, revelling in the tug he feels in the pit of his stomach. George makes a small noise in return and opens his mouth more. He puts his other elbow down aside Harry’s other ear, bracketing him with firm biceps and forearms, and lets one leg fall between both of Harry’s.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

“I love you too,” he replies. George swoops in for another kiss, and this time he shifts where he’s lying over half of Harry’s body. Harry’s half-hardness leaps to attention at the drag of skin over skin, fabric over fabric where their strained shorts meet. He whines at the friction, and then again at the loss when George leans away, off the edge of the bed, and waves his hand around until he can finagle his wand out of his discarded clothes. He locks the door with it and throws up another charm (silencing, Harry presumes), before dropping the wand and returning enthusiastically to Harry’s embrace and wandering hands.

George smells like sun and warmth and what’s probably the burner they use at the brewing stand in the workshop. He _feels_ like sun and warmth and the flame of their burner, but he tastes a little like salt and a little like soap and a lot indescribable, so Harry thinks he’ll stick to his other senses. There’s a hint of lavender that Harry would have otherwise associated with Ginny, but it’s in the sheets and wafting from the sprigs in the vase on the desk, and George’s hair is soft and sleek with it. He’s gorgeous, both subjectively and objectively, and Harry sighs with the wonderment of how he managed to catch his attention at all in the first place.

George pushes up on his hands and stares down at him with a look that almost makes him snort with laughter, but then he smirks and starts feeling his way down the rest of Harry’s body, and the laugh turns into a horribly indecent grin.

######  _\- x -_

George returns the next night and doesn’t sneak out until the early hours. It’s on the night after that when he appears that Harry gets the impression he’s actually too scared of Sirius to do this when Harry’s at Headquarters. He scoffs at this, wonders what the hell Sirius could have said to throw a mighty Weasley off the thrill of an adventure (and getting off), but soon decides he doesn’t really care, because this is fun and exciting and George is creeping into the room again practically vibrating with the need to touch Harry. The door is locked and their clothes are on the floor, and Harry is reaching for him and laughing as George trips over his own socks and has to catch himself on the mattress. 

“Stop laughing, you bloody minx,” he says warmly. 

“Me?” Harry says. “Laugh? Never!”

It’s almost no time at all until they’re lying side-by-side and snogging again, legs tangled and hands lost in hair and over skin. The room is hot and humid despite the festering chill that’s been threatening almost all summer. The window is open and there’s a gentle breeze, and by the gods Harry would never want to be anywhere else. With George holding his waist and his cock and fluttering kisses along his neck, he wishes they could stay like this forever.

“Merlin, I want you.” George says it so quietly Harry isn’t sure he was actually meant to hear it, but that doesn’t mean his gut gives a sickening lurch of excitement in response.

“All right,” he whispers, and pulls George on top of him. The covers slide the rest of the way off their legs and Harry finds himself staring straight up into the stunned, widening eyes of his beautiful ginger boyfriend.

“Harry,” he breathes. “I mean—are you—”

“I want you too,” Harry eventually confesses, and it’s quite a momentous effort to get past his embarrassment. “George, I want you in me.”

“Oh, _fuck,”_ George hisses. His eyes slip closed and his hips grind down against Harry’s and now they’re both moaning. “You know, I, er, I’ve never—I mean, um—”

“Neither have I,” Harry says, though surely George would be aware of that. His heart is in his throat though, and he’s started shivering like it isn’t the depths of summer again, and George is already smoothing a placating hand down his ribs.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry.”

“I want to, George. God—god knows I _want_ to… Here…”

Harry gathers the scattered slivers of his courage and turns himself over onto his front. He leans his body on his elbows and looks over his shoulder, his lip caught between his teeth.

“Bloody hell,” George whispers. He’s staring at Harry as if he’s never seen him before (which is weird and a little funny) and his hands are moving before he seems to even notice. “Harry, I love you,” he says. “I love you so, so much. I want you to know that.”

“I do,” Harry replies. His throat is strangled by sobs that threaten to break the surface. “I love you too,” he manages. “I love you too.”

George strokes down Harry’s spine and the backs of his thighs, dipping between them to tease at the sensitive swathes of skin. It’s mere seconds before Harry feels his mouth follow, kissing and licking and biting trails all over him that make him glad he only ever wears jeans. There’s that horribly strange sucking sensation again on the inside of his right thigh, where he just knows George is trying to lay his claim with his marks. Both the thought and sensation send sparks straight to his cock and force a little gasp of “Ah!” from his mouth that he feels foolish for not disguising. George moans against Harry’s leg and that noise alone wipes his embarrassment away with a towering wave of _yes, yes, yes, yes, please keep doing that I-love-you,_ and then he moves up a bit, and then up a bit farther, and then Harry finds out all sorts of new ways his body can feel in response to George’s touch. Almost all of them phenomenal.

It’s the first night George falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until morning, his wand and alarm forgotten on the floor while he’s too busy sealing his chest to Harry’s back. Harry actually wakes up several times during that night, too unused to having a partner in his bed to sleep solidly, but it’s a half-awareness where he can’t really think past _George is here… That’s nice… He shouldn’t be… But…_

And so, really, it should not be a surprise to be woken up in a jolt of fear. 

Harry sits up so quickly his head swims and his vision goes terrifyingly white, blotting out the person standing in the doorway. He blinks furiously and hears a yelp when George finally wakes up enough to realise the situation, finally forcing his eyes to come into focus on Fleur.

“Oh!” she exclaims, somewhat belatedly. “Oh, mon dieu.”

“Um,” Harry says. He’s very intelligent, he promises. “Er… Hello, Fleur?”

“Good morning,” she replies automatically. Her eyes seem fixed on the two of them, flicking between George, who is frozen in a half-curl that suggests an aborted attempt to leap out of bed, and Harry, sitting ramrod straight against the headboard and fisting the covers in his mortified hands. A few more seconds pass between them in silence, but then a wide, beaming smile steals its way across her previously blank expression.

“I think you will want me to keep this from Molly, won’t you?” she asks. She looks delighted and smug, and Harry really wishes he could just hide from her under the covers for the rest of eternity.

“Please,” George croaks. “She, um. She won’t do well with it. Not like this.”

“You are fine,” Fleur says, softer now. “Your secret is safe with me. I take it Bill does not know?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry says, but George looks even more ill. 

“Some of the others know. Our friends, I mean. And Fred, and Ron and Ginny. Percy, even, by now. I’d bet galleons Ron told Charlie too, so god, maybe Bill _does.”_

“It is fine,” Fleur repeats. “I came to tell you breakfast will be ready soon. If you are, er, _sneaking out,_ I think I can ask Molly for help finding something for a headache.”

“Thank you,” Harry breathes. “Thank you so much. You’re a life-saver.”

“Thank you, my dear sister-in-law-to-be,” George says, smiling again. “I shall endeavour to repay the debt I owe you forthwith.”

Fleur laughs, and it’s a tinkling sort of sound. Harry can imagine how Bill found himself so taken (but she still isn’t his type).

George kisses him goodbye in the few moments it takes Fleur to put her distraction into motion. Harry promises to go by the shop later and help him torment Fred, and then promises he’ll take along a message to Remus for him.

“Oh, and do try and work on Mum and Ginny for Fleur, will you?” he adds before he goes out the door. “I really do think we owe her at least that.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees readily. Guilt wells up in the tension of his jaw as he realises he’s had plenty of time to talk to them already and hasn’t. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s my boy.” George grins, kisses him again, and is off down the stairs, quick as lightning.

Harry doesn’t quite know he’s grinning when he goes down for breakfast. Fleur smiles indulgently at him and Bill grins, both of which have him choking on his orange juice. Ron gives him an odd look and thumps him very unhelpfully on the back. It’s still a brilliant morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So any of my friends who have also read my trash/chat fic Quidditch Season may know who Danny is. As I said there, I am shameless and also helpless to keep my fingers out of the hphm pool when writing :)


	20. Sixth Year, IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came too quickly :( I'm sad now

“So, why exactly is it that you dislike Fleur so much?” Harry braves asking.

“Ugh,  _ really?” _ Ginny scoffs, rocking back where she’s sat at the roots of the nearest apple tree. “Have you heard how she speaks to me? You’d think I were five! Or stupid!”

“She’s not that bad!” Ron protests. Harry grimaces.

“She does have a little sister of her own,” he points out. “And there’s the language thing. You never know, she could just be struggling to gauge you—she’s treading on eggshells as it is, you’ve not been particularly accommodating.”

“Oh, and of course you’d be bowing down to kiss her feet too,” Ginny huffs. “Bloody boys.”

“Like you weren’t going all daydreamy when she was in Hogwarts for the tournament,” mutters Ron.

“Oh,  _ you _ can shut up!”

“I’ll have you know I’ve no interest in Fleur whatsoever,” Harry says irritably. “I am more than happy with who I’ve got, thanks.”

“Oh, but Harry,” Hermione sighs. “You heard how she was talking at the Yule Ball! She didn’t stop complaining for one minute!”

“Have you considered that maybe she was frustrated by all the gits like this one drooling over her everywhere she went?” Harry knocks Ron gently on the shoulder and hides a smirk when he flushes and begins to protest. “Maybe she just needed to vent and no one was listening.”

“She just wants Bill because he’s good looking!” Ginny insists, but now she’s glaring at the grass she’s pulling up between her fingers and sounding a little less sure of herself.

Harry sighs. “She was practically glowing when she told me about her engagement. You’ve seen how they are, yeah? I’ve never known anyone other than your parents and my godparents to be so taken with each other.”

“Yeah?” Ron snorts. “Well you clearly haven’t seen yourself, mate.”

“Shove off,” Harry grins. “All I’m asking is that you two give her a chance. She’s been completely ganged up on, and Bill’s having a job convincing your mum he doesn’t want to be set up with Tonks.”

“But Tonks is wonderful!”

“And  _ somebody _ told me she’s already taken.”

“Oh,” Ginny says. That’s taken the wind out of her sails. “Has she told Mum?”

“Don’t think so, no. Even then, it might not help.”

Hermione clears her throat after a moment of thoughtful agreement from the Weasleys. “Do you want to tell us why you’re suddenly jumping to Fleur’s defence now, Harry?”

“Er,” he says, already feeling the back of his neck flush. “Well, she’s my friend, isn’t she? Fellow champion and all.”

She narrows her eyes and leans towards him. “There’s more to it than that. Come on, out with it.”

Harry scratches at his wrist and licks his sticky-dry lips. “She, er, she may or may not have walked in on me with George in my bed and helped sneak him out before your mother found us.”

“Oh, bloody hell!”

“She didn’t!”

“He was here?!”

“You weren’t shagging, were you?” It’s Ginny who asks this last one, looking absolutely beside herself with glee and leering at him in an unsettling way. The flush creeps over Harry’s cheeks and he can feel the underneath of his hairline growing damp with sweat. 

“No!” he protests. “No! He just—overslept!”

“But you did, didn’t you!” she jeers. “You so did! That’s hilarious!”

“Ginny!” Hermione says, scandalised, but Ron only groans and covers his face.

“Tone it down, will you?” he whines. “I really do not want to think about what they get up to when we’re not there!”

_ “Anyway,” _ Harry says, clearing his throat and pushing on through the horrific embarrassment. “Fleur helped. She kept our secret. She went behind your mum’s back for it even though all she wants is to be accepted by her. She told me how much she wants to be friends, and, well, family, if you let her. She’s trying her best and she genuinely cares, all right? So lay off.”

“She’s not exactly horrible, either,” Ron mumbles, still with his hand over his eyes.

“All right,” Ginny finally admits. “All right, I’ll say I’m sorry. But I’m not letting her off just for that, and if she hurts Bil, I’ll never forgive her.”

“I suppose we’re a bit harsh,” Hermione says. “I wonder how we’d feel in her shoes.”

“Probably like they were two sizes too small,” Ginny sighs, gazing down at her toes wiggling in her socks. “She’s bloody tiny. And gorgeous.”

“She’s part veela,” Ron shrugs.

“And you’re beautiful too.” Hermione nudges her with an elbow. Ginny snorts, hard.

“I’m not jealous, Hermione, I’m  _ gay.” _

“But you went out with that—!”

“I swear to god, Ron, if you don’t shut up about Michael  _ ruddy Corner—!” _

Harry catches Hermione’s little fluster as she hides behind her knees and grins.

######  _ \- x - _

Really, Harry thinks, he should not be all that surprised to find Neville sitting at his kitchen table when he floos back into Grimmauld Place from the Burrow. It was only a matter of time. Neville and Theo are sat across from each other at the far end of the kitchen, both leaning in over a large book and talking quietly. Neville is gesturing and animated and flicking from page to page while Theo nods and points, and Harry thinks he probably would have invited Nev over earlier if he’d remembered the two were friends.

Harry trips on the grate climbing out of the floo, quite effectively startling his friends out of their conversation with his swearing. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this. His foot fucking  _ hurts. _

“Heya Harry,” Neville says, waving down the table. Theo sends him a more conservative smile.

“Hey Nev, hey Theo. You guys all right?”

“Not bad. Have you finally escaped Mrs Weasley?”

Harry winces. “Just about.”

“Oh, and congratulations on making Quidditch Captain!”

“Thank you!” he laughs. “Angelina and the twins threw me a party, but I think they just wanted another excuse to drink. Has Ron told absolutely everyone or is there still going to be some sort of surprise?”

Neville tilts his head and pretends to think. “I’m sure there are a few people in St Helier who haven’t heard yet.”

“Sirius literally just went out, Harry, if you’d like to catch him,” Theo says. “You might want to run though.”

“Thank you,” Harry smiles. “If you can find me a plant that’ll fuck with Malfoy I will pester either McGonagall or Sirius until you get permission for all of your greenhouse enterprises.” 

“Really?” Neville says. “You’d do that?” Harry nods and he frowns and flicks to the contents of their book. “I think I saw something here about…” 

It’s almost worth having to leg it all the way to the station when Sirius shrieks at Harry appearing next to him.

######  _ \- x - _

The windows in the flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes are shut firmly against the descent of a heavy, pervading chill. Both the warming charms and the fuzzy, too-big Weasley jumper Harry’s wearing are working wonders to keep him snuggly warm where he’s curled up in the armchair and gazing over at the tiny, flitting fish in the tank on the windowsill. He thinks they’re mostly Angelina and Katie’s, as they’re the only ones he’s really seen pay much attention to them aside from at feeding times, and that’s kind of sweet in its own way. Behind the tank the early evening sky is already darkening, thick with clouds and weeping gently.

Sirius is away on mission from the Order tonight and Malfoy’s decided to have a freak out about his mum in the drawing room with the Black tapestry, which is what has Theo currently occupied. Ron and Hermione are undoubtedly arguing over homework at the Burrow and Harry is neither in the mood for them nor Mrs Weasley’s well-meaning worrying, and nor does he want to freeze his arse off flying around the orchard with Ginny or intrude on Bill and Fleur. Angelina’s at work until six and even then Harry isn’t sure how much of a welcome he has from her. He’d rather not ask for hospitality from Mrs Longbottom or Mr Lovegood, as nice as he’s sure they are, and he wouldn’t know where to begin when hanging out at home with Luna or Neville. Fred and George are both downstairs in the shop, soon to be closing for the night, and so here he finds himself, heaped in their living room and hiding from the rest of the world. 

He’s brought quite suddenly out of his thoughts by a loud crash and a frustrated yell from below, swiftly followed by several thuds and a weaker shout. Surprise and worry almost tip him out of his chair before his legs stop protesting enough to obey, and Harry makes his stiff, staggering way to the shop door and hurries down the stairs. The workshop door is very slightly ajar when he gets to it. Beyond it he can hear the scuffing of careless shoes against wood as someone paces and mutters, so he very carefully pushes it open. Fred must catch the movement out of the corner of his eye because he turns his back on Harry and stops pacing, instead leaning on the workbench with a weary sigh. Two large crates have toppled over at his side and spilt an array of flat packaging boxes and stickers over the floor. On the workbench itself are numerous green rectangles, spools of metal wire and tiny, unidentifiable objects.

“I can’t do it, George,” Fred says. “It’s too—it’s too small and fiddly for me to… Argh,  _ fuck!” _

“Fred?” Harry says cautiously. “Are you all right?”

“Harry!” Fred exclaims, straightening up and whirling around immediately. Two fleeting looks of surprise and guilt cross his face as he tries to force a smile. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t notice you.”

Harry frowns. “It doesn’t really… sound like it.”

Fred laughs shortly and looks down at the mess on the floor. “I forgot they were there and knocked them over, there’s no need to worry.”

“What’s that?” Harry asks instead, nodding towards the bits of plastic on the table.

“Oh, it’s, er…” Fred grimaces when he looks back at the table and scratches the back of his neck. “Circuit boards.”

“Oh. Is that a soldering iron?”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “Angelina was teaching me how to do it. Her dad’s an electrician, did you know that? We had this idea, and she said we could try using these little things—” he picks up one of the circuit boards and flips it between his fingers, “—and alter them to run on magic, like a specific spell or something. A toy for kids that doesn’t just run on charmwork and transfiguration, which could make it more durable and increase its lifespan. I was just trying to, uh… Well…”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, unsettled by Fred’s despondent expression.

“I wanted to make one by myself,” he admits quietly. “You know, without magic, just to prove I can. But I’ve never been good with fiddly things and coordination, and holding all these in place and soldering them in is… Really hard. George usually does the tricky things, but I got a bit shirty when he tried to help and told him to bugger off.”

“That’s all right,” Harry tells him. “I’m pretty sure he understands. Is there anything I can do in his place?”

Fred smiles weakly and runs a hand over his face. “I think I’m going to need help if I ever want to do one of these on my own. You don’t have to stay, Harry, I can just ask George after he’s closed up the shop.”

“Hey, come on,” Harry grins, “I’ve always liked this stuff. I can wire a plug and take apart a toaster, but I’ve never gotten into the electronics.”

“Where on earth did you learn that then?” Fred asks.

“Ah, I used to fix stuff at the Dursleys’. My clock is one of Dudley’s old ones after he broke it. Turns out he just managed to wrench one of the wires apart or something.” Harry wanders over to the table and picks up the coil of solder, bending and unwinding it and fascinated by how malleable it is. “Is this what you’re putting on the boards?”

Fred hums. “These are the resistors, capacitors, motors, buzzers, et cetera.” He points to the piles of tiny shapes with disproportionately long legs. One of them, Harry thinks, might have come straight out of War of the Worlds if it had been about ten thousand times bigger. Fred shows him what he’s putting where and why, explaining as best he can what each of the tiny components are for. Harry expects there’s a lot more to it than either of them understand but, sadly, Angelina is not around to explain the finer details.

“How about I hold the board and the, uh, the little thing while you solder it on?” Harry suggests.

“I’ll burn your fingers!” Fred protests, looking at him in horror.

“No you won’t, come on.” Harry picks up a new board and slots a capacitor into the pinholes Fred had pointed to. “I’ll hold the legs on this side so you can’t get me, all right?”

Fred nods. “You know, that might work. Hold on…”

They don’t talk much as they fix the components to the boards. Harry stands and watches Fred work, amused by the way he frowns and pokes his tongue out to curl around his top lip when he concentrates on the trickier bits. All of his movements are very careful, if not always on the mark, and they end up putting together half a dozen boards before he realises they’d only needed the two.

“…We used to climb out of our window onto the roof for fun,” Fred’s telling him, sweeping the resistors back into a tiny ziplock bag. “But until we went to Hogwarts we weren’t quite tall enough to get ourselves back in, and the only way down is by climbing the gutters and ledges. George could always do it easier than I could. I usually ended up falling on my face, or, memorably, that one time I landed badly on my ankle and snapped my leg nearly in half. Of course if that didn’t stop us I don’t think anything would have, but I was never as brave or stupid if George wasn’t there. You’ll laugh, but Percy’s helped me off that roof more times than I can even remember. Even if Bill and Charlie and Dad were home I’d always be crying for Perce… Funny how things work, isn’t it?”

“Fred, if the girls were here you’d never hear the end of how adorable that is,” Harry snorts.

“Oh shut up,” he chuckles. “Don’t go telling them, will you?”

“I know, I know: you’ve a reputation to maintain.”

“Exactly. See, I knew you were our kinda guy.”

“Our?”

“Definitely more George’s, admittedly.”

“I’ll say,” says a voice from the door. Harry jumps and grins, pushing himself off the table and hurrying to hug hello to George in his brilliant magenta robes.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you done for the day?”

“Yep,” George chuckles. “Verity’s just gone home. I didn’t know you two were holed up in here.”

“Harry’s been showing me what an idiot I am,” Fred says. He holds up the completed boards with a grin. “We tested them and they work!”

“Brilliant!” George laughs. “Are you going to show Angie? I’m sure she’ll be well impressed.”

“Might do,” Fred shrugs, but Harry can tell he’s putting it on.

“You’re not an idiot,” Harry sighs. “All I did was hold them for you, anyway.”

Fred tuts and shakes his head. “You done did good, Harry. Now go on, I know you’re raring to go snog my brother senseless.”

“Is that my jumper?” George asks then, peering down at Harry with obvious amusement.

“Maybe,” Harry says. He strokes a hand down the large G on the front. “Maybe I changed my name. Maybe it stands for Gryffindor.”

George snorts and maneouvers him out of the door at the same time as burying his nose in the curve of Harry’s neck. “Come on you little shit. I’ll go change while you make tea, how does that sound?”

“How about I help you and we skip the tea part entirely?”

“I like how you think, Trouble.”

Harry grins. “I thought you might.”

######  _ \- x - _

When Harry wakes in the morning, it’s to a bed enticingly warmed by the body pressed up behind him and a soft, smiling mouth darting kisses along his bare shoulders. He lets himself sink into the call of the mattress and duvet and curl away from the weak sunlight streaming through the parted curtains. George’s hand smoothes over his stomach and he sighs, utterly content, rolling his head aside to give better access to his neck.

“Good morning,” George says. His voice rumbles over Harry’s skin and sends a subtle shiver through his thoughts. Harry hums and lifts a lethargic arm to touch George’s cheek and twist his neck to press a kiss there.

“Morning,” he mumbles. “What time’s it?”

“Early enough,” George replies. Harry cracks open an eye to meet his soft, gorgeous smile before turning around in his arms and burying himself in George’s chest. “I take it you don’t want to get up for breakfast just yet?”

“Breakfast means closer to Sunday and Sunday means no you,” Harry grumbles. “We could always guilt Fred into making us some.”

George laughs into the top of his head. His chest and stomach quake with mirth, reeling Harry in and cracking his lips in a grin. 

“Do you know why I call you Trouble?” George asks him.

“Because I’m a walking magnet for it, maybe?”

“It’s more because I'm pretty sure you could sweet talk me into anything you wanted to.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, sliding his hands around George’s neck. “Then how about I sweet talk you into one last parting gift?”

“I think I could be amenable,” George agrees. 

When they finally amble out into the day Fred makes them breakfast without even having to convince him, and they send Harry off through the floo with a wave and a kiss on the cheek.

“See you in a bit,” Harry says.

“We’ll be waiting!” George crows. Harry thinks they enjoy having secrets a little more than they probably should. 

The flat spins away in the same moment he calls out for the Burrow. He coughs through the soot and clambers out of the Weasleys’ fireplace, once again accosted by Mrs Weasley with a second breakfast before he can wipe his glasses clean.

“Here you go, Harry,” Bill says, sliding a full money pouch across the kitchen table. Harry takes a seat next to Ginny and frowns at the bag.

“Oi, where’re ours then?” Ron says.

“It’s already Harry’s, you idiot,” Bill snorts. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out three smaller pouches, sliding them to Ron, Ginny and Hermione and continuing on before Hermione can protest. “Sirius said you haven’t been to Gringotts lately, and since it’s taking about five hours to get through security at the moment I thought I’d get everyone’s all at once.”

“Thank you,” Harry tells him. Hermione nods fervently. Fleur beams as she sets two plates on the table and rests her hand over her fiancé’s shoulder.

“He is always thoughtful,” she says, and Ginny mimes throwing up into her cereal bowl.

“Ew, affection,” she grumbles. “Next thing we know you’ll be getting married.”

“Kind of the point of an engagement,” Hermione says.

“Are we all good to go?” asks Mr Weasley, hurrying into the kitchen. “The car’s just arrived—security for Harry, of course.”

Harry cringes and shrinks into his seat, but Ron only groans and waves his spoon at his dad. “Can’t we finish our breakfast first?”

“You’re still going?” asks Mrs Weasley in surprise.

Ron ducks his head and shoves another spoonful in his mouth. “I was talking to Harry.”

The drive is shocking short for having taken them all the way from Devon into London. Soon the clouds are descending farther over the rooftops—that, and that the rooftops are stretching farther into the sky—and the cold is seeping through the glass windows at Harry’s shoulder. Few people are about despite it still being the last of the summer holidays, and in a short few minutes the Ministry-enchanted car is pulling up outside the Leaky Cauldron.

“Ah, here he is!” says Mr Weasley, looking up at something out of the car window. Harry ignores further conversation to lean across Ron, Hermione and Ginny and peer out, grinning widely when he recognises the giant figure waiting for them on the pavement. Instead of a battalion of aurors, Hagrid is stood in front of the pub as proud as day, intimidating muggles accidentally and brightening when Harry scrambles out of the car.

“Harry!” he booms, and Harry slips around the car to reciprocate his enthusiastic hug. “It’s good ter see yer!”

“Hey, Hagrid!” he laughs. “We didn’t know ‘security’ meant you!”

“Ah, it’s jus’ like old times!” With another hearty pat on the back, Harry is released and Hagrid busies himself saying hello to the rest. “The Ministry wan’ed to send a bunch of aurors, see, but Dumbledore said I’d more’n do. Anyway, let’s get goin’! After you, Molly, Arthur…”

For the first time in Harry’s memory, the Leaky Cauldron is empty when they set foot inside. Tom the barman cuts a solitary figure at the bar, wiping glasses and looking up at them hopefully.

“Jus’ passin’ through today, Tom,” Hagrid says. “Official Hogwarts business, you understand.”

Tom nods gracefully and doesn’t say anything, though he catches Harry’s eye and winks. Harry bites down on a grin and hurries after the Weasleys, through the pub’s back courtyard and out into the dismally quiet streets of Diagon Alley. He realises that from inside the twins’ shop he’s not really been privy to the extent of the damage Voldemort’s second uprising is inflicting. He’s watched the quieting of the patronage and noticed the drop in tension of the shoulders of every person hurrying into Wheezes as if terrified to be caught outside. He’s seen the large purple Ministry posters appearing up and down the street from inside, but no one had let him out long enough (not that he’d minded) to see the boarded windows, the loss of the alley’s magic and spirit, or the addition of dozens of silently screaming wanted posters. He’d not seen the dodgy stallholders or the shattered facade of Ollivander’s, he’d not noticed the stooping figures in thick black cloaks creeping along in the shadows.

“One for your little girl, Madam?” calls a seedy wizard to Mrs Weasley. He rattles his armful of silver medallions on thin chains and leers at Ginny. “Protect her pretty neck?”

Ginny scoffs and makes a rude hand gesture at him where her parents can’t see. Harry almost laughs at him along with her; he has, after all, watched her throw knives at Death Eaters.

“If only I were on duty,” bristles Mr Weasley, glaring at the seller.

“Yes, yes, but don’t go arresting anyone now, dear, we’re in a hurry,” Mrs Weasley says. She unearths a worn sheet of parchment and consults it anxiously, fretting over who should go where, when and why. It turns out that Harry, Ron and Hermione are best sent off to Madam Malkin’s with Hagrid while Mr and Mrs Weasley take Ginny to Flourish and Blotts. Harry pushes almost half of his money pouch into Mr Weasley’s hands when he agrees to get Theo and Malfoy’s books owl-delivered to Grimmauld Place.

It doesn’t take them long to have their robes fitted and packaged at Madam Malkin’s so they wait outside with Hagrid until Ginny and Mr and Mrs Weasley come to join them. Neither Harry nor Ron buy ingredients at the apothecary, neither of them having achieved Snape’s O grade needed to take NEWT potions, but they do buy large boxes of owl pellets for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops’. Hermione and Ginny persuade Mrs Weasley into the Magical Menagerie to browse for Crookshanks, though everyone gives Harry very odd looks when he picks up a tub of fish food and a little aquatic plant.

And after they’re done there… Well. It would have been futile of Mrs Weasley to try to stop Ron and Ginny getting to Fred and George’s. The shopfront rises up before them on its highly conspicuous corner, a veritable riot of colour and activity in the midst of the gloomy stillness of the rest of the alley.

_ “Woah,” _ Ron balks, stopped in his tracks at the sight. 

“Bloody hell,” Ginny mutters, earning herself a sharp look from her mother.

“Come on then,” Harry says, grinning and wandering up the street with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “We don’t have time to hang around, do we?”

“They’ll be murdered in their beds!” he hears Mrs Weasley hiss behind him. He turns to see her gazing worriedly up at the posters for U-No-Poo, Loonar Loop Luminators and their iconic Skiving Snackboxes.

“No they won’t!” Ron snorts, giggling behind his hands as he hurries after Harry. “This is brilliant!”

“It is quite, isn’t it?” Harry murmurs. Despite doing bugger all himself, he can’t help but feel an overwhelming surge of pride for Fred and George. He and Ron lead the way inside the shop, Harry pulling him down and out of the way of a stray fanged frisbee that whips its way over their heads. The floor is packed with customers as usual, picking from already-depleted stacks of snackboxes and whizzbang displays.

“‘Patented Daydream Charms,’” Hermione says. She’s joined them in front of a display half spilling into the WonderWitch aisle and is gazing in bewilderment at a box in her hand. On the front is a highly saturated image of an attractive youth (who looks suspiciously like a darker Oliver Wood) and a swooning girl in a white dress aboard the deck of a pirate ship. “You know, this really is extraordinary magic!”

“For that, Hermione, you can have one for free,” says an amused voice behind them.

“Fred!” Hermione gasps, jumping and clutching the box to her chest.

“How’d you figure that, love?” he asks, grin widening. “Even our own mother can’t tell us apart.”

“Well,” she says dryly, “it might have something to do with that other brother of yours staring at Harry from over there.”

Harry follows where she points to see George hanging off the bannister of the stairs to the second floor and grinning at them. Harry sighs and smiles indulgently back, rolling his eyes when he pretends to faint and topple over the edge.

“Do you think your own mother doesn’t know who you are?” he says, turning back to Fred. “Of course she knows, she’s your  _ mother.” _

Fred’s eyebrows twitch up with his bemusement. “You’ve heard her yourself, Harry—can’t find up from down on a good day.”

Harry laughs and sends him an exasperated look he may or may not have picked up from Angelina. “You’ve played your switch-up game for so long, Fred, she just wanted to play along to make you happy. She always admires your jokes, even if she doesn’t quite approve.”

Unfortunately, Fred gets pulled away by a call from Verity before it seems he has the proper time to process that. Hermione raises her eyebrows at Harry as they watch him go.

“Harry, this isn’t your first time in here, is it?”

“What?” Ron asks distractedly. “How come?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry says, suppressing violent laughter.

“Decoy detonators!” Ron cries, apparently finding the defensive product shelves. “They’ve finalised the design!”

“Seems like it,” Harry hums. “They were pretty good when we tried them out, weren’t they?”

“We never did get to use ours,” he sighs. “Still, they’re like originals, aren’t they?”

“Vintage, I’m sure,” George says, finally appearing at their shoulders. “Long time no see, Harry dearest! I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Harry says, hiding his shit-eating grin in George’s shoulder with a quick hug. Hermione snorts so hard she nearly chokes.

“Oh, stop putting on a show!” Ginny tuts. “We all know what you two’ve been up to!”

“I bloody well hope not,” George grumbles, though he ruffles her hair and punches Ron gently in the shoulder.

“Oh, I brought you a present,” Harry says, finally remembering his package from the Magical Menagerie. George takes it with an intrigued look and folds back the paper, grinning when he takes out the little plant. 

“Simon will love this, I’m sure.”

“Who’s Simon?” asks Ginny.

“Their fish,” Harry says.

“You have a fish?” Ron frowns.

“No, I think we have about seven,” George says. “And they’re all called Simon. We made the mistake of letting Alicia name them.”

“Not that you can tell them apart anyway,” Harry mutters.

“That’s because they’re identical,” George argues, pouting, and then they all burst out laughing. “Anyway, haven’t you found the WonderWitch stuff yet? I’d’ve thought you’d be over there in a flash…”

“It’s not quite my scene, I don’t think,” Hermione says uncertainly, but George grins and holds out a hand.

“Nonsense, my love! While it is true that you need no help with your disarming prettiness and that blade of a tongue, you can always find something here to use to your advantage.”

“You’ve not much experience charming women, have you?” she says, placing her hand in his and letting him tug her a little to her left.

“Best left to Fred, I’m afraid,” he agrees. “Now, we’ve got all you can think of here, from love potions to ink removers to air-tight, stain-proof pouches in a variety of patterns.”

“Love potions?” Ginny says. “Do they really work?”

“Certainly,” says Fred. “For up to twenty-four hours at a time, depending on the weight of the receiver—”

“—and their attraction to the giver,” George finishes. “They don’t work with sustained use and you can build up a resistance fairly quickly, but we designed them that way. We wanted to make sure they stay a prank and not… Well, you know. Anything dangerous.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hermione says. “I’m still not sure you should sell them so freely, though.”

“One per customer at a time,” Fred corrects. He leans against a nearby shelf and lets a smug grin slip onto his face. “Though I don’t think we’ll be selling them to our sister, not when rumour has it she’s already got five boys on the go—”

“Whatever you’ve heard from Ron is a big fat lie,” Ginny says calmly, reaching out to inspect a small pot of cream. “This?”

“Guaranteed Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher,” George tells her, also grinning. “It’s excellent on anything from boils to blackheads—trust us, we know—but don’t change the subject. Are you or are you not currently going out with Dean Thomas?”

Ginny chokes on her sudden laughter and nearly drops the Pimple Vanisher. “Dean Thomas?” she cackles. “You mean Dean Thomas, their dormmate, who’s probably been snogging Seamus since before you realised you were going completely daft over the Chosen One?”

“Hey!” George yelps, but it’s not very effective when his ears go bright red.

“Yeah, thought as much,” Fred sing-songs. “Thought you’d like the chance to give Ron a good whack for talking shite though.”

“Much appreciated,” Ginny snickers.

“Hey, no,” Ron says. “I said I was worried he was looking at her, I never said anything about going out!”

“She had the quaffle, Ron,” Hermione sighs. By this time they’ve made their way around to the cage in the corner that’s practically simmering with fluffy pink-and-purple pygmy puffs.

“Ooh, what are these?” Ginny asks.

“Pygmy puffs, miniature puffskeins,” George says. “Ron also mentioned how you think you’ve come over to my team?”

“If you mean I got tired of boys altogether, you’d be right. Can I get one of these? They’re really cute.”

“We’d do anything for our darling sister, you know that,” Fred says. 

“Uh huh, except, you know, be nice to me.”

“You don’t need anyone being nice to you, Gin, they’re all far too afraid to cause you trouble in the first place.”

Fred and George roll their eyes as one when not five minutes later does Mrs Weasley begin fretting about getting home. Ron sighs and Harry surreptitiously slips him a couple of galleons for what the pouch Bill gave him doesn’t cover, and then Ginny’s much too distracted cooing over her new furry friend  _ (“Arnold, _ Gin,  _ really?”) _ to pay attention to anyone else.

“You could just use our floo, you know that right Mum?” Fred sighs.

“It’s not like our wards aren’t good,” George says. “Bill did them himself.”

“Did he now?” asks Mr Weasley. “I didn’t know he’d been here. Did he come to check in—?”

“Arthur, we don’t have the time,” huffs Mrs Weasley. “Now come on, we have someone waiting for us and it would all go down terribly if we didn’t show up. I shall make sure to send you boys something soon and make sure you’re looking after yourselves, but for now we have to get these four home.”

“All right, Mum, we’ll see you later.”

“We’ll come for dinner or something soon.”

“You’d better if you don’t want me turning up in your living room unannounced!” she threatens. “But do make sure you stay safe, won’t you?”

“Course,” Fred says. He flings an arm over George’s shoulder and tugs him in despite his protests. “We look out for each other.”

“Come on, dear,” says Mr Weasley. “You know how resourceful they are, they’ve learnt from the best.”

Mrs Weasley gives her sons one last, pained look before wrenching them both into a hug and kissing their cheeks. “Come for dinner!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” George promises. He catches Harry’s eye when his parents turn to leave and pulls him into one last hug, reaching over to mess with Ron’s hair at the same time. “You lot be good at school, yeah? No hundred-and-one detentions this year.”

“We’ll send you a toilet seat,” Ginny says. 

“Atta girl,” Fred grins. “Now go on, before Mum has a fit.”

“We’ll see you soon!” Hermione says.

“Not too soon, I hope,” mumbles Ron.

Harry snorts, elbowing him in the side. “Be nice.”

“He was my brother before he was your boyfriend!”

“And just think of all the stories he’s been telling me.”

“Oh, Merlin,  _ no.” _

######  _ \- x - _

Sirius apparates Theo and Malfoy into King’s Cross to join Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys and their auror escorts. With six trunks, five pets, three fussing adults and two aurors, Harry doesn’t think they could be any more conspicuous as they walk through the barrier to platform nine and three-quarters. It’s still rather fun, though, when everyone who sees the group does a double take for more than just a sighting of their new ‘Chosen One’.

“We’ll see you in a bit, Harry!” Hermione says as they near the train.

“Er, what?” Harry says.

“Prefect duties, mate,” Ron sighs. “We’ll come and find you when we’re done, all right?”

“Oh, course,” Harry replies. “Have fun.”

“We won’t,” Malfoy grumbles, not bothering to wait for Mrs Weasley to release his fellow prefects before wandering off towards their carriage.

“Guess it’s just us then,” Theo says. Harry looks over and realises that Ginny too has disappeared off into the steam shroud of the Express.

“Well, I hope you lot have a good year this year,” Sirius says.

Harry snorts. “We’re hardly going to have to contend with Umbridge again, are we?”

“Thankfully not,” he replies, amused. “Though I do worry about you.”

“He’ll be fine,” Theo promises. “After all, he’s got the whole of the DA on his side now, as well at least partial neutrality from the rest.”

Sirius smiles. “I meant the both of you, Theo, but I see your point. Look after each other, and I’ll let you know as soon as there’s any update on Moony.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, opening his arms for a crushing hug from his godfather.  _ This, _ he thinks.  _ This is what’s been missing these past five years. _ Behind them, the whistle of the Hogwarts Express shrills loudly and Mrs Weasley makes a harried noise.

“Come on, you two!” she says, ushering them towards the nearest carriage. “Hurry now, quickly!”

Sirius and Mr Weasley help Harry and Theo to lift their trunks onto the train, Mrs Weasley handing through Leaf and Hedwig’s cages just before she slams the door shut. Sirius grins and salutes them, stepping back so Mrs Weasley can take his place.

“We’ll be seeing you for Christmas, Harry, and Sirius and Theodore have been invited as well!” she tells them. “It’s all fixed with Dumbledore, so we’ll see you soon!” 

The train shrieks and begins to pull away from the platform, but Mrs Weasley walks along after it to keep up.

“Make sure you look after yourselves, and Ginny, and be good, and for the love of Merlin  _ stay safe!” _

“We will!” Harry shouts back to her, leaning out of the window and waving so she doesn’t have to run. Sirius and Mr Weasley wave after them as well, and within the next few moments the platform at King’s Cross disappears from view entirely.

“So,” Theo says, shouldering Leaf’s cage and lugging his trunk up to standing. “Shall we find somewhere?”

“Sounds good to me,” Harry agrees, and they begin to make their way down the train. “Do you think you’ll take Mrs Weasley up on her offer?”

“Of Christmas? I… I don’t really know. I don’t suppose they’d really want me around, would they?”

Harry snorts. “Well she wouldn’t invite you if that were the case. I’ve been telling Ron, Hermione and Ginny about what we’ve been doing back at home—” a word that never fails to bring a small, emotional lump rising to his throat, “—so she probably knows all about it too. Can’t say what she thinks of Malfoy, seeing as three of her children, myself  _ and _ Hermione have all had a go at breaking his nose, but we’ll have to wait and see.”

“I can’t see him taking the offer even if they  _ were _ generous enough to extend it,” Theo sighs.

“Decidedly lower chance of angry Weasleys at Hogwarts, I suppose,” Harry agrees. Halfway down the second carriage they bump into Ginny, who has Arnold the pygmy puff perched on her shoulder. Her friends’ preoccupation with her is a welcome change from the many dozens of faces staring shamelessly at him from compartment windows. Harry taps her on the shoulder and gestures down the corridor.

“D’you fancy looking for a compartment? I haven’t seen Luna or Neville yet but I thought we’d find them on the way.”

“Oh, sorry,” Ginny says, scrunching up her face. “I’m actually in the middle of looking for someone. I’ll come find you after, yeah?”

“Sure,” Harry says. “We’ll go find somewhere that isn’t… Y’know.”

She laughs and nods to Theo. “Good luck.”

“Gods, you’re popular,” he hears Theo mutter behind him. Harry blinks away from Ginny’s retreating back and realises he’s once again surrounded by staring girls.

“Christ,” he says. “Let’s keep going.”

Before they can move, however, they’re stopped by a welcome voice from behind them. “Hi Harry! Hi Theo!” says Neville, trundling along with his trunk in one hand and Trevor cradled in the other. 

“Hey Nev,” Harry grins. Luna steps out from behind Neville, a pair of large, pink-and-blue cardboard spectacles perched atop her hair.

“Hello Harry,” she says. “I hope you had a good summer.”

“Since the last time I saw you, yeah,” he says. “How are you? Do you want to try and find a compartment with us?”

“I’m very well thank you, and that would be lovely!”

He glances down at the Quibbler she has folded to her chest and grins. “The Quibbler still going strong, then?”

“Oh yes!” she says. “Circulation’s been well up since your interview.”

“I’m glad I could help,” he replies sincerely.

As it turns out, an empty compartment is not overly hard to find. What is hard to find is some peace and quiet, when every few seconds some startled sixth-year or fantasy-bound first-year will appear outside their window and yelp in surprise.

“Blimey, they’re even staring at  _ us,” _ Neville says, “just because we’re with you!”

“They’re staring because you were at the Ministry too—there was enough about it in the Prophet,” Theo says. “Just think of how they’ll react to Weasley and Granger. Draco, even, since that somehow got out too.”

“Good point,” Harry agrees grimly. “And he was hoping for a normal year.”

“You’re Harry Potter,” Luna says dreamily from behind her magazine. “There aren’t enough letters in ‘normal’ to cover that.”

Harry and Neville glance at each other and then to Theo.

“Well,” Neville says, “you’re not wrong.”

Luna lowers her magazine and smiles. Her spectrespecs (Harry assumes, seeing a similar pair advertised on the Quibbler’s front) make her look even more far-out than usual. “Are we still doing DA meetings this year, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies with a frown. “I don’t think there’s much point now Umbridge’s gone.”

“I liked the DA!” Neville protests. “I learnt loads with you!”

“I liked the meetings too,” Luna says. “It was like having friends.”

Harry blinks. “But—we  _ are _ your friends, Luna.”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s really kind of you.”

“We like having you as our friend,” Neville assures.

“And the DA was rather constructive,” Theo muses. “Are you sure you don’t want to continue?”

“I think I’ll have to talk to Hermione and see,” Harry sighs. “She’ll have my head if I don’t start focusing on NEWTs by the time we’re five minutes out from Hogsmeade… Oh no.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry has seen lingering movement outside the compartment door. It’s followed by a small disturbance of hushing and giggling as a group of fourth-year girls tumble into view.

“You ask him!” says one with pinking sunburn and too many rings on her fingers.

“No, you!” argues her red-lipsticked, tan-skinned companion.

“I’ll do it!” 

The third, a bold, pale, dark-haired girl, slides open the compartment door and holds her head high.

“Hi Harry,” she says. “I’m Romilda—Romilda Vane. Why don’t you join us in our compartment? You don’t have to sit with  _ them.” _

She flicks her hand in a vague gesture at Neville and Luna, in her bizarre spectrepecs, and only then seems to notice Theo, at whom she curls her lip meanly.

“Who? My  _ friends?” _ Harry says coldly. “I’m fine where I am, thanks.”

“Oh,” says Romilda Vane, looking surprised. “Oh. Okay then.”

With that, she steps back and slides the door closed. Harry retrieves his wand and flicks it at the door. The blind snaps into place almost viciously, blocking out the wide-eyed and whispering faces of the other girls.

“People expect your friends to be cooler than us,” Luna says.

“I don’t care if they do,” Harry says firmly. “I think you’re plenty cool. None of them fought at the Ministry with me, and none of  _ you _ stare at me like I’m some sort of hero.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “That’s a very nice thing to say.”

“Don’t you want the others to find us?” Theo asks, pulling the blind up so he can peer out with disinterest.

“Don’t worry, they’ll know,” Harry says. Theo’s eyes flick to the far edge of the blind and his mouth ticks up at one corner.

“So,” he says, letting it drop back down. “Who wants to embarrass Harry with all the times we caught him staring at his boyfriend?”

The morning wears on and the Hogwarts Express trundles as stubbornly across the British countryside as ever. The weather is as patchy and dark as it has been all summer moving between London and Devon, where they get two minutes of bright sun, five of grey cloud and twenty of thickening fog. They’re enjoying one of the slimmest portions of sunlight when the door slides back and Ron, Hermione and of all people  _ Malfoy _ come tumbling through.

“Oh, finally!” Hermione says, dropping onto the seat next to Neville, who jumps. “We saw your sign, Harry.”

“A deer, Potter,” Malfoy sneers. He perches next to Theo and flips up the blind, on which the outline of a little golden stag canters. “How subtle.”

“I wish the lunch trolley would hurry up,” Ron groans. “I’m bloody starving.” He sits down next to Harry and grins at Luna when she peeks over her Quibbler. “Whatcha got there, Luna?”

Harry’s distracted quickly from their conversation by Hermione, who gasps louldy.

“Oh no!” she exclaims. “I completely forgot! How could I be so stupid? I didn’t even get to Flourish and Blott’s…”

“What’s going on?” Harry asks.

“Her Voice,” Malfoy says. “Somehow, despite never closing her mouth, it managed to slip her mind.”

“Oh, do stop being such a prat,” Theo tuts, smacking Malfoy on the arm.

“I was going to research into it, Harry! Find out how it works, see if it’s dangerous or if it could be used to our advantage… Oh, how silly of me… I’ll have to go straight to the library when we get to school…”

“It’s all right, Hermione,” Neville says nervously. “It’s not  _ that _ pressing. You can at least stay for dinner.”

Hermione twists her lips and fiddles with the end of her sleeve. “I suppose,” she sighs. “I’ll probably have to look in the restricted section anyway, if what you said about people hating it is true.”

The compartment door slides open again as Harry leans forward to catch Trevor, who’s made another bid for freedom out of the open window, making him jump and slide off the seat and onto the floor.

“Sorry!” says a breathless third-year Slytherin waving a few pieces of parchment. “I’m looking for—”

“Are you all right?” Hermione asks when the girl freezes and goes wide-eyed at the sight of Harry.

“For Neville Longbottom and H-Harry Potter,” she finishes quietly. She thrusts the parchments into Neville’s hand and runs from the compartment, letting the door roll and slam behind her.

“Starstruck again, Potter,” Malfoy says. 

“Yeah yeah,” Harry replies, lifting himself back into his seat and tipping Trevor into Neville’s lap. “That one mine?”

Neville passes him one of the scrolls and they untie the large purple ribbons holding them closed.

_ Harry,  _ the scroll reads.

_ I would be delighted if you could join me for a spot of lunch in compartment C. _

_ Sincerely, Professor H. E. F. Slughorn. _

“What is it?” Ron asks, leaning over Harry’s shoulder.

“An invitation,” Harry says warily. He scrunches his mouth at the thought. Collecting people, indeed.

“Who’s Professor Slughorn?” asks Neville.

“Our new teacher,” Harry tells him, getting to his feet and shoving the parchment in his back pocket. At the thought, he checks his invisibility cloak is secure in his jacket. “Went to see him with Dumbledore this summer. Suppose we’d better go, then?”

“I suppose so,” Neville agrees. He looks about as happy as Harry does about it. “What does he want me for?”

“Probably saw your name in the papers. We’ll see you guys later, yeah?”

“See you,” Ron says glumly.

“Enjoy,” Theo says.

“We won’t,” Harry mutters under his breath.

As soon as he and Neville reach compartment C it becomes obvious that they are not Slughorn’s only guests; Slytherin Blaise Zabini sits in one of the seats closest to the door, opposite two seventh-years unknown to Harry, and in the corner, half-hidden by Slughorn’s not inconsiderable bulk and looking very confused as to how she ended up where she is, is Ginny. It is maybe a little too obvious that Harry is the most anxiously awaited invitee by the way Slughorn leaps up to greet them, shaking Harry’s hand enthusiastically enough that he wonders whether he might have to regrow the bones in his arm a second time.

A round of awkward introductions and stilted interviews later, Harry, Neville and Ginny find both themselves and Zabini, Cormac McLaggen and Marcus Belby subjected to irritatingly boring small talk and anecdotes, none of whom are more willing than any of the others to share their own. It takes all of about ten minutes for Harry to get fed up with the sound of McLaggen’s voice, and even less to feel his skin prickle at the way he catches Zabini eyeing Ginny. It’s a genuine relief when Slughorn jumps and hurries them all off to change into their robes, sending Harry stumbling out of the door and tripping over his own feet.

“I’m glad that’s over with,” Neville mutters. “Bit of a strange man, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, a bit,” Harry agrees. “How come you ended up in there, Gin?”

“Oh,” she smirks, flicking her hair over her shoulder smugly. “He saw me bat-bogey hexing Zacharius Smith. Idiot wouldn’t shut up about what happened at the Ministry so I ended up pulling my wand on him.”

“Well, it’s better than your fists,” Neville says.

Ginny laughs. “I thought he was going to give me detention when he opened the door, but he just thought it was a really good hex and invited me to lunch!”

“Speaking of food, we’d better get back before Malfoy and Ron rip each other apart,” Harry interjects. “I bet he hasn’t shut up about the lunch trolley.”

“So that’s where Draco’s been,” says the deep, smooth voice of Zabini from just behind them.

“Don’t sneak up on us like that!” Ginny snaps, whirling on him. 

“She’ll hex you,” Neville says.

“So I’ve heard,” Zabini replies. He looks between the three of them with slightly narrowed eyes. “So he’s alive, then?”

“Of course he’s alive,” Harry says. “Theo’s been there to keep him in line.”

Zabini sighs. “So they’re both with you… Pansy sent me off to look for Draco shrieking about his lack of response by owl over summer. She’ll be unbearable if I go back empty-handed, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be coming with you.”

“And who says we don’t mind?” Ginny demands. Her wand has somehow made its way into her hand without them noticing, and she fingers it dangerously in her crossed arms. Zabini leans back and holds up his empty palms.

“We haven’t heard from them for two months—they’re my  _ friends.” _

“Fine,” Harry sighs. “But if you two try to start shit we’re kicking you out.”

“Fine with me,” Zabini chuckles.

“Hello all,” Neville says when he rolls back the door on the suspiciously quiet compartment with the deer running loops on the blind. “We’ve escaped.”

Behind the door is a very odd scene indeed. In fact, if Harry hadn’t been at Grimmauld Place this last summer, he’d say he wouldn’t have believed his eyes at all. Ron and Theo are crouched atop one of the benches, clutching at each other’s arms for balance and looking wildly around their feet. Hermione is half in Luna’s lap, having apparently keeled over laughing, and Malfoy is crouched on the floor at their feet with Trevor plastered to his hair and a large china teacup grasped upside-down in his hand.

“Bloody hell, you’ve been overrun by Gryffindors,” Zabini mutters.

“I’m not a Gryffindor,” says Luna.

“Apologies, Lovegood. Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw.”

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” Ginny asks, bewildered.

“S-Spider!” Ron whimpers, dragging one of his clawing hands from Theo’s robes to point at the floor.

“They’re wimps, that’s what,” Malfoy mutters.  _ “Ah ha!” _ he shouts, slamming the cup down on the floorboards. “Gotcha.”

“Pest control,” Zabini drawls. “Is this what you’re keeping yourself busy with these days, Draco?”

“Blaise!” Malfoy scowls, falling on his arse as he tries to spin on the ball of his foot and overbalances. Neville swoops in to scoop Trevor off the top of his head before he can escape.

“Blaise!” Theo cries plaintively. He extracts himself from Ron and leaps to the floor, careening straight into Zabini’s arms. “There’s a huge bloody spider in there!”

“Dear Merlin, Theodore,” Zabini sighs. “One would think you’re scared of the things.”

Theo smacks his chest. “It’s not funny!” 

“You all right, Ron?” Harry asks.

“Fine,” Ron squeaks. He glances at the cup on the floor and then takes a flying leap over Malfoy’s head to land next to Hermione on the other bench. Hermione shrieks and Luna giggles, and then Ron loses his footing and collapses on top of them both.

“So I suppose Pansy sent you, then?” Malfoy says.

Zabini snorts. “If you want to go find her then it’s your funeral.”

Malfoy gives him a pained look and shivers, violently. “I think I’d rather stay here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, I would first off like to thank each and every one of you for reading so much of this mess. It was a huge project for me and also one of my closest loves for a relatively long period of time during the initial lockdown here in the UK. Given that I haven't finished this story, and JKR has made the franchise less and less of a safe space all by herself, it's likely that this will be the last chapter despite its odd timing. I had the whole thing planned, I have long arse google keep notes full of ideas, dialogue scraps and entire paragraphs, and in my head we're already in the epilogue. I'm sorry if this is in any way disappointing, it's incredibly disappointing for me too.  
> Though, as I have mentioned in a few replies, I AM giving consideration to picking the challenge up again sometime. It’ll be a while before anything comes of it, IF it does—I’ve probably been spoiling you with a chapter per day hahaha. If I ever do write more, I will certainly put it up as soon as it's ready.  
> Still, thank you again, and my best wishes for all of you :') <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me over on [tumblr!](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


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